Baldur's Gate: A Novelization
by PurplieNurplie
Summary: Playing through Siege of Dragonspear got me interested in doing some writing about Baldur's Gate; it's a fantastic story, one I can hopefully do some justice with words. Not many pieces in this section are in first person, so I think that's interesting ground to cover. Not sure if I'll update this too often, but I'd like to, at any rate. Cover image courtesy of the FR Wiki, Bhaal
1. Sarevok

**Chapter 1: Sarevok**

Tonight, one of my siblings must die.

Why, you might ask? A reasonable question.

It's a question whose answer starts during the Time of Troubles, when the gods that many worshipped came down to lowly Aber-Toril. One unfortunate side effect of this was the deities losing their immortality. In other words, they could die.

Many of them did, and their deaths utterly changed reality. Think about it. What kind of world is it without, for example, The Lord of Murder?

The one that I now vie for control of. Bhaal was one of the more cunning gods, though; he had a plan. Foreseeing the possibility of his own death, he sired tens, perhaps hundreds of mortal children, who became infused with errant sparks of his divine power.

These sparks were small, nearly undetectable. Except for others of the same ilk. Perhaps now the answer to my question is becoming clear.

Tonight, I arrive in Baldur's Gate, a beautiful, sprawling mess of a city, to hunt down the first of these sparks. I can almost taste the power I'll be granted by slaying this poor person, the rush of intoxicating energy. Who knows how much stronger I'll become? The thought makes me giddy.

The people left on the near-desolate streets hurry out of my way with heads down and shivers, mistaking me for some kind of demon, in my armor; full plate, black as this moonless night, with spikes adorning my shoulders and head, a crown fit for the future king of not only this mortal realm, but of the gods' as well.

Only one man turns to face me, look me in the eye. He looks rather unassuming, frankly; brown hair and eyes, splint mail armor, a practiced nonchalance. This man wanted to stay hidden from those who would seek to find him.

It's really too bad for him that he couldn't.

Almost as if he knows who I am and my purpose here, he begins to run. Why does he prolong his own death? He should willingly give himself up to me. With a sigh, I simply follow after him, probably surprising him with the speed at which I move. Neither of us is a normal human being.

As the leader of the Iron Throne, a powerful mercantile enterprise here in the city and elsewhere, my agents are never far from where I need them. Quite handy for when I need to trap a man, keep him confined in a cage of my own design. Trained assassins come out of every alley, every grate that leads into the sewers, almost, it appears, out of the very shadows themselves.

The man, my brother, runs even seeing an army form from every corner, from every building he passes. He runs because he has nothing left to do. He can't possibly fight us all and win. The thought pleases me greatly.

Eventually, he's forced into and up a tower. Abandoned, from the looks of it; perhaps once the home of some great master of the arcane, now reduced to the last hole for this pathetic animal to crawl into.

I enter its high, wide double doors shortly after him. I can feel the time drawing closer. My heart thumps in my chest, not from exertion, but from sheer _excitement._ My time is drawing ever nearer, every second I hunt this fool down brings me closer to _godhood_. Could a mortal man aspire to greater heights?

He makes it all the way to the door to the roof. Frantically, desperately, he pushes and pulls on the door. What a weakling. Can you not simply _break down_ the obstacles that stand in your way? It seems he needs a display of true strength.

He screams as I dash up the stairs after him, charging him through the door, splintering it upon impact. His body flies through it, slamming into a fence that surrounds the roof. The crunching sounds of the shattering door and his body against metal spur me forward through the doorway, stepping over the pieces of wood on the stone of the roof. Slowly, carefully, tasting the moment like a fine cut of meat.

He staggers to his knees. He searches for a weapon; his sword flew away from him after his flight through the air. I glance at it, lying against a corner of the roof. His eyes seem to try to escape his skull as he looks at me, perhaps finally realizing that there truly would be no escaping my wrath.

He shouts, pleads.

"No, you can't!"

I grin, not visible from my helmet, unfortunately. All he sees are my eyes, shining down on him, bright golden lights. The last lights he will ever see.

I grab him by the neck with one hand, and hold him up at eye level.

"I will be the last!"

 _Yes. Savor this. Feel the fear radiating off him. Feel his life drain away at your hands. He squirms, he writhes, he gurgles; nothing will save him._

I crush his throat just a bit tighter as I make my proclamation, something more than a promise; this man would face _judgement_.

"And you will go first!"

I throw his body over the fence. He screams all the way down. I close my eyes and wait for the sickening thud. Upon hearing it, I lean over to see his eyes, still wide as they were, the last spasmodic twitches of a dying man, blood pooling underneath him.

It was done. My sibling was dead.

He will not be the last to fall at the hands of Sarevok Anchev.


	2. Bryce, Candlekeep

**Chapter 2: Bryce, Candlekeep**

For twenty years, Candlekeep has been my home. Now, today, it seems I must leave it.

I thought today would be like any other in this library – more like a fortress, really, with its impossibly high, circular wall and guards posted at nearly every corner, the faithful Watchers. I would awake at dawn with the cawing of chickens and roosters, find Gorion, the man I call my father, though we are not related by blood, and receive chores.

 _Chores_. The word inspires dread and fear in the minds of many children across Faerûn, and for a younger version of myself, there was no exception. _Sort this section of books alphabetically. Deliver a shipment of weapons and armor to the Watchers' barracks. Wipe the dust from the library_. Dust. How much _dust_ could there be in that gods-forsaken library? I shudder; I know the answer to that question, and it's not a pretty one.

Twenty years of laboring on such tasks has only made me stronger, faster, and wiser. You'd think being a half-orc would not necessitate such trials, given my natural height, strength, and hardy constitution, but as Gorion would patiently explain every time I complained about the sheer number of tasks he would give me, "The chores are their own reward. Their fruit will blossom in time, and it will be all the sweeter when you realize."

As an adult, I understand his point, but still didn't love the idea of hauling crates around, or wiping a feather duster on old mahogany shelves all day. Which made today all the more surprising. I descended the stairs in our humble home, one of many scattered around Candlekeep's great ring, to see Gorion sipping from a cup; water or tea, perhaps.

"Good morning, Father." I say. A simple greeting, one which I've probably said a million times to the man. He's hunched over slightly, his back to me, those dark grey robes seemingly wishing to blend in to the early morning's shadows that still dance in the interior.

"Bryce." He replies. Not _good morning, Bryce_ or _good to see you!_ Any number of possibilities. Something was going to be different about today.

"What is it, Father? You look troubled." I say, walking over and taking a seat across from him at our small, circular table, steepling my hands and awaiting a reply. Old as he was, he somehow looked older this morning. His usual confidence was nearly gone, and, judging by the bags under his eyes, he hadn't slept a wink last night.

He sighs, taking a final sip from his cup.

"Bryce, Candlekeep is no longer safe. We must leave, you and I, tonight."

 _Leave?_ I nearly fall out my chair. The word inspires such a rush of emotion in me. _Fear; why do we have to leave? What happened?_ _Excitement; yes! I can't wait to explore the world I've only seen when I sneak out! Trepidation; what if I'm not ready for whatever's out here?_ _Curiosity; where are we going? What are we going to do?_

Trying, and failing, to compose myself, any sleepiness I may have had simply evaporating, I manage to form a question. "I'll need supplies; food, water, that sort of thing, won't I?"

He nods, almost as if expecting the question, untying a small pouch from his robes and placing it on the table between us. "Get those, and weapons and armor as well. You'll not be leaving this place with only old leathers and a quarterstaff to your name."

Weapons and armor? Now I was really nervous. Of course, I had trained with both before. Gorion himself taught me the basics of swordplay, and as I grew older, I became better at it, to the point where now I can take Hull, Fuller, even 3 or 4 Watchers at a time. But the thought of having to take those skills and use them out in the wider world, and now, all of a sudden, still bothered me. What was going on?

"When do we leave?" I ask another question. I get the feeling I shouldn't ask too many, so I cut straight through the chaff, grabbing the pouch after a second or so of hesitation.

Gorion finally looked me in the eyes for the first time since I sat down. He exhaled deeply, somewhere between a breath and a sigh.

"Tonight, as I said, after you've finished any business and said your goodbyes. I'd prefer it to be sooner, but…" He trails off. But what?

"I understand," I lied. "I'll do just that." I say, standing up and grabbing my quarterstaff off a nearby wall. "I'll head to the inn, then; Winthrop should have what I need." Gorion nods again at my plan; normally, he wasn't exactly chatty, but this reticence was still unusual. I had so many questions, but it seems that they would have to wait.

"Bryce." He calls out as I put a hand on the doorknob. I hear him swallow, and then sigh. "No, it can wait. I'm sorry. Go, prepare as best as you can." That was it; no sage advice about the dangers of the road, or stories about the last time he had to leave this place, no proselyting about how I should keep in mind his lessons even outside of Candlekeep's walls. Something was definitely going on. I leave. Putting my body to work will ease my mind, give me focus and direction. At least, I hope so.

Outside of our small home, I take in Candlekeep as a whole before I begin my trip around the ring. Scattered all around were homes like ours, monks young and old running to and fro, no doubt on important errands of their own. The Temple of Oghma, God of Knowledge and Wisdom, stands proudly in one corner, the priests going about their morning rituals. The inn, the domain of Winthrop, Imoen, his adoptive daughter, and numerous guests, rises out of another. The Watchers' barracks and warehouse occupy a third corner. How many times had Imoen put whoopee cushions under their pillows? How many rats had I had to kill in that warehouse?

Last, but certainly not least, the great Library of Candlekeep occupied the center. A place I knew intimately well, several floors packed full of one of the great collections of tomes on the Sword Coast, and perhaps in all of Faerûn, all of Aber-Toril. Several times, scholars have tried to count the number of books in the library; whether with magic or great waves of laborers, they simply could never get an exact number. A literal uncountable, unquantifiable store of manuscripts, references, tales of adventure, dictionaries and encyclopedias, myths and legends.

All of this was what I was leaving behind. I rubbed a few fingers on my forehead, deepening the crease in my brow. With a sigh, it was off to the inn for me. One last day of chores before I set off on a grand adventure.


	3. Gorion

**Chapter 3: Gorion**

As my ward left our humble abode, I could only cradle my head in my hands. Taking a deep breath, I examined them carefully. Wrinkled, bony, weak; it seems I was _old_. It doesn't seem that way, it's painfully true.

I knew it from the moment I had to deal with an assassin in Candlekeep. I was making the rounds last night, circling the great ring as always. I saw Bryce up on the precipice, admiring the ocean over the cliffs, and I had hoped he hadn't spent too much time outside the walls. I know he and Imoen liked to sneak out, just to show they could. How they got back in was always a mystery to me.

My distraction with such petty thoughts nearly cost me my life. The blade lept out of the inky darkness, and somehow, with all my decades of experience, I nearly didn't notice. Moving on instinct, I ducked out of the way of death's first strike, already preparing a spell. It was hard to tell what hand held that blade, as their dark clothes made them appear to be one with the very shadows they struck from. I didn't want to kill this person; I needed to know who they were, and, more importantly, who sent them.

The incantation was almost a whisper, a solemn promise that every mage makes; the power to alter the very fabric of reality in exchange for great cost, in terms of time and energy.

" _Cupio…Virtus…Licet!"_ The school of Enchantment. A small, clear ball of energy thrummed as it emerged from my outstretched fingers. It reached its target swiftly, and I heard a grunt, and a thump. His body glowed in the night, indicating that the spell had found its mark.

I propped him up against a nearby wall, shook him a bit, patted his cheeks gently. Unconscious, at least for now. I pulled his eyelids up. A distinct yellowing of the sclera, and an aura of friendliness and trust. In other words, Charm Person was a success. I took a step back and examined them more carefully; dirty, matted black hair grown long. Black leather armor wrapped tightly around a lithe, dexterous body. There was no doubt; this person was here to commit murder.

When he awoke, however, he certainly didn't give that impression. His head tilted upon seeing me unnaturally. His voice sounded rote, mechanical.

"How may I help you, sir?" The first words of someone Charmed. Victims enter a state of magical compulsion; they cannot lie. A magical truth serum. There were only a couple of questions I needed to ask. I had a limited amount of time before the spell wore off, so I had to be efficient.

Folding my arms across my chest, I asked my first question. "What is your name?"

"Shank, sir." Is the reply. He blinks once, twice, a smile permanently plastered to his face. No matter how many times I see it, Charmed people always give me goosebumps.

"Is that your true, given name? Not a weapon you wield, or a title?" Leave it to an assassin to have a name so off-putting, so evocative of violence that I even had to ask.

"No, sir. Sarevok would never allow his agents to use their real names." Blink. Blink. Sarevok? The name sounds so familiar. Gods. It hit me all at once. I nearly doubled over. _The spawn of Bhaal I left behind?_

"By Sarevok," I somehow manage to maintain my composure to keep asking questions. I don't know how. "Do you refer to Sarevok Anchev, current leader of the Iron Throne?"

"Yes, sir. He sent a small group of agents here, to Candlekeep. We were to retrieve the half-orc living here known as Bryce, dead or alive." This time, he didn't blink. He twitched. The spell was wearing off. I drew a knife from inside my robes, a dagger. I had all the information I needed. Covering his mouth, I cut his throat, setting him down gently.

That was when I knew that Candlekeep would never be safe again. Sarevok knew where Bryce was. I would never let him take my son.

Yet, I sent him off to run errands, to gather his own supplies for our journey. I didn't want to worry him, so of course I haven't mentioned any of this to him. His brother coming to murder him. Assassins potentially waiting around any corner while we're still here.

I paced impatiently outside the doors to Candlekeep's library. It was evening now, past supper. I saw Bryce coming towards Candlekeep's center. Thank Oghma, thank Tymora, thank any gods I can think of. Before he ascended the steps, however, he was stopped by another, one around his age. The two were close enough that I could hear their conversation.

"Heya, it's me, Imoen!"

His best friend from childhood. A necessary counterbalance in his life. Woman to his man. Human to his beast. Peace and joy to his desire for conflict, for murder.

"Imoen! Where have you been?! Today has been crazy." She gives him a quick hug. She's grown now, into a beautiful young woman. Light red, almost pink hair. Large cheeks and cheekbones, with a disarmingly bright, sparkling look in her eyes and smile. Bryce stood before her wearing plate armor, cradling a helmet under his arm, with two swords in sheaths on either hip, and a bow and quiver strung to his back. Looks like he gathered supplies, just as instructed.

"Crazy? Whaddaya mean?" She inquires.

"I nearly _died_ , Imoen! There are _assassins_! Here! For me!" My heart, once soaring, was now sinking into despair.

"Woah, woah, slow down." She throws her hands up between them.

"I had to _kill!_ To _stay alive!_ " His hand hasn't stopped moving. Even encased in a plate gauntlet, I can see it, him, shaking. Gods, why didn't I tell him?

"Just wait up a second, geez! Take it easy, big guy." He was never great at communication. Maybe that's ironic coming from me. "You're alive right now, right?"

"And leaving with Gorion, who's got a _lot_ of explaining to do." He says, crossing his arms over his massive, plate-covered chest and huffing. I owe him an explanation, that's true. I resolve to give him one, once we've escaped to safety.

"Wish I could go with ya. I'd like to hear more about this too, ya know." She says, digging the toe of her boot into the dirt. Bryce visibly softens at the gesture.

"You know I can't ask him that, Imoen." He says, taking a step towards her.

"At least you won't have to go very far!"

His head twitches. She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes wide.

"How…?"

"Ahaha, how could I _know_ that, right?! Come on, this is _Imoen_ we're talking about!" She tries, painfully, to laugh it off. Bryce is not in a laughing mood.

"You, uh, better get going. Don't want to make ol' Stick-in-the-Mud mad!" She runs off. He moves to follow, but halts in his tracks. He sighs, running a hand through his buzzed black hair as he looks around, seemingly asking himself mentally what to do. Just come here, Bryce. So we can get _out_ of here.

He ascends the steps hurriedly. Not that I blame him. "Gorion, I'm ready to leave." He says. It looks like he took a minute to recompose. He doesn't know that I saw and heard what just transpired. He looks visibly shaken by what's happened today. I don't blame him; I _can't_. There's only one person who needs to be blamed here.

I nod, and together we walk to the gates of Candlekeep. The Gatewarden signals to the Watchers stationed by the massive gate, and it opens, lurching and squealing as it rises slowly. As it does, Bryce takes a look back at Candlekeep, his home for his entire life up until this night. Almost as if, on this night of final parting, he sees it for the first time, as well as the last.

For our sakes, and for the sake of the entire world, I sincerely hope that this is not the last time he sees this place.


	4. Tamoko

**Chapter 4: Tamoko**

I wish Sarevok didn't wear his armor so often.

With it on, he looks exactly as he wishes to; a dark, terrifying figure, who could swoop out of the night and end you at any time, obscured so that you only see his towering strength and golden eyes. So many have died filled with terror and dread, looking into them.

But when I see him, as a man, without his plate shell, I see something different in those eyes. I see passion, real passion and love. I see a self-assurance, a confidence that many across the Sword Coast could only envy. Yet, sometimes I also see doubt, insecurity, as on this night, as we stand waiting in the forests outside of Candlekeep.

"My love, do you fear Gorion and his ward so? You look as if-" I reach a hand out towards him.

He raises a hand of his own, as if to block mine. Dark skin creases, his brow furrowing. "I fear _nothing_! No one! A _god_ would say as much." Yet, he shakes his head. Even if it's subconscious, he doesn't fully believe.

Gorion, as the Iron Throne has come to learn, was a powerful mage, a member of the Harpers, an allegedly neutral organization full of those trying to maintain balance in this world through their deeds. He adventured for many years before adopting children of his own and retiring to Candlekeep's once-secure walls. If there was a man in Faerûn who could defeat Sarevok, end his terrible quest for dvinity, it was him.

His child, his son, Bryce, however, remains something of a mystery. He rarely ventured outside of the walls, but was, according to reports, a skilled swordsman, able to defeat the initial group of assassins sent for him. That fact is why we're here now, my love, myself, an archer, and two ogres recruited for the cause. Would we be enough? Would my love die in my arms? It was not a thought I cared to entertain.

He suddenly looked up. With a resolute exhale, he donned his helmet, no longer Sarevok Anchev, the man who held me so close just a few hours ago. Now, he was Sarevok, leader of the Iron Throne, a mortal man infused with the divine essence of a god, willing to go to any lengths to take what he believed was his rightful place in the heavens above. "They are here." Was all he said, and then we knew to move.

We emerged from trees, thickets, and under-shrub, the five of us. The two ogres in front, myself and an archer in the back, and Sarevok in the middle, visible even between the ogres' monstrously huge bodies. He seemed to rise above them, even though he couldn't have been half their height.

The voice of an old man rung out through the night. "Bryce, I'll explain everything when there's time, but for now, listen carefully; if we ever become separated, head to the Friendly Arm Inn." Then the voice, the movement I heard just a second or two ago stopped suddenly. "Wait, something's wrong; an ambush."

Then, they appeared before us, Gorion and Bryce. The mage in dark grey robes, and his ward in plate armor, looking, for all his youth and visibly green skin, like he belonged next to one of the most powerful mages to ever live.

Sarevok stepped forward. The ogres made way for him. "Perceptive, for an old man. I'll make this simple; hand over your ward, and no one here has to be hurt. If you persist, it will be a waste of your life!" An ultimatum; how he usually dealt with things. The question is, doesn't he know that Gorion would never –

"You're a fool if you think I would trust your benevolence!" Exactly my point. He would _never_ simply 'hand over his ward.' He's trying to provoke him. Why? Why does he go to such risk? "Stand aside, and you and your _lackeys_ won't be killed!" An ultimatum to match his. Here's the answer to my question. He knows exactly what to say.

"I'm _sorry_ that you feel that way, old man." Just like that, he jerks his head towards the two, and we explode into conflict.

Bryce draws twin swords from twin sheathes; hand and a half swords, otherwise known as bastard swords. Normally, you would choose to wield one with both hands, but it seems he's strong enough to hold them with one. He's my responsibility, according to the plan. His eyes flick from Gorion to us, settling on myself and our archer. Instinctually, he seemed to understand the flow of the fight from the moment it started. Perceptive as his foster father, it appeared.

He runs hard to his left, forcing the archer and I's attention his way; the battle, having just begun, was already split into two halves. I glanced at the ogres charging Gorion. With a flick of each wrist, the ogres were cut down almost as swiftly as they approached him, an arrow of acid and a bolt of lightning striking each down. Sarevok simply watched. Just like him; use the tools as his disposal to weaken the enemy before he struck the final blow. We were merely pawns for Gorion to waste spells and Bryce to consume energy. Our archer, undeterred, drew and fired swiftly. One, two, three arrows.

Bryce tucked and rolled to avoid one, and held up arms covered in plate. His arms stiffened from the effort, but the remaining arrows cracked and splintered on impact. He was no simpering fool wasting his youth away on books. It seems our reports were accurate.

I barely had time to begin an attack of my own. A magical fireball flew towards us. Another of Gorion's spells. My eyes widened, and I dove for cover. Rolling out of my dive, I managed to make it behind a nearby boulder. The ground shook, and all around me, it grew hot like an oven baking. It passed in a wave, and the air seemed to simmer and steam afterwards. Slowly, carefully leaning out of my cover, I heard "Run! Get out of here!"

Our archer was reduced to a pile of charred ash, as was the site of the impact. Sarevok drew his greatsword, hefted it with both hands, and slowly moved towards Gorion. Bryce halted in place; probably deciding whether to listen to the wise words of the man who raised him, or fight and die alongside him. I would make that decision easy. Calling forth a spell of my own, I duck back behind the rock as I chant. I would only get one shot at this. I had to either kill Bryce, or wound him so that he could no longer resist us.

" _Facio…Voco…Ferre!"_

The fire formed between my hands. I took a deep breath. Rushing out from behind my cover, I threw it towards my quarry. He had started running towards Gorion and Sarevok, so my aim was off by just a few inches. He turned to me too late, and the fire singed his shoulder, nearly melting the plate right off it.

At the same time, Gorion was backing away from Sarevok, throwing every remaining spell he had at him. Surrounded by identical copies, mirror images of himself, he threw missiles of pure magical energy, more lightning bolts and arrows of acid, anything the Art would let him produce. It was not enough to even break my love's stride. Walking right up to the mage, he swung his giant blade horizontally, vivisecting and dispelling his copies.

With no spells left to fight with, Gorion drew a dagger, holding it sidelong in his left hand, parallel to his right palm just behind it. He looked fiercely determined; admirable, considering how outmatched he was, in terms of sheer physical strength and size. Sarevok stopped in place.

"What did I say, old man? A waste of your life." He taunted, readying his sword for the final blow.

"Defending my son, defending the Realms, from your villainy…I could think of no greater end." Were his final words; Sarevok crushed his attempt at a parry, throwing the dagger away, and running him through. Gorion gasped, grunted.

I turned to Bryce, who was already sprinting away as fast as he could. He melted into the long shadows cast by the trees, disappearing into darkness. With a heavy heart, all I could think of was my own failure. Gorion's might not be the last death on this sorrowful evening.

Sarevok pushed Gorion's body off his sword, onto the ground, then flicked his blade, throwing off his enemy's blood, and turned towards me, sheathing his sword. "Where is he?" He growled.

"He escaped in the chaos, my love. I'm sorry." I said, kneeling before my lover, my lord, a man whose actions and words I could rarely predict when we weren't in the heat of battle. He might lop my head off here and now, for all I know.

Instead, he merely looked past me, deep into the night. I watched his eyes move from one section of the forest to another. He folded his arms over his broad, armored chest.

"It was not _entirely_ your fault. I underestimated Gorion and his ward. We will find my other brothers and sisters. But I will _remember_ this, Tamoko. I will remember your _failure_. Come, let us be off." He turned away and began walking through shadows of his own. I stood, wavering, unsure of whether to follow. I love him, with all of my heart.

But with that armor on, on his quest for ascension by any means, Sarevok is not an easy man to love.


	5. Imoen

**Chapter 5: Imoen**

I had a pretty strange dream last night, after Bryce and Gorion left. He said he got attacked by assassins, something like that anyway. I didn't want to believe him, but then I had this dream.

The Chanters, those old fuddy-duddies, were doing their usual, singing the Prophecies of Alaundo, the old fart who founded Candlekeep. They sing because he's never gotten a prediction wrong, ever. Except this time, I heard my voice first. One of the few prophecies that hasn't come true yet.

 _The Lord of Murder shall perish. In his wake, he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sown in their passage. So sayeth the wise Alaundo…_

Over and over again, I heard it. First it was my voice, then Bryce's, clear and strong. Then Gorion's, old but proud. Then it was me again, but older, wearier. The words melded together, bounced off of one another, and voices kept saying it, different ones, ones I've never heard before. I couldn't tell them apart.

Then the words turned into drops of blood, dripping off them and pooling together. The pool got bigger and bigger, and turned into an ocean of blood. Then it all rose up at once, a great big wave, and flooded everything, the whole world.

When I woke up, I was sweating, panting. The first dream I could ever remember fully, in detail. I knew something was wrong. I had to find Bryce and Gorion. I don't know why, but I just had to.

So I carefully crept out of the inn, silently apologizing to Winthrop on the way out. The stairs creaked a bit, but I was able to make it out safely. I paused before I left. He was a good guy, Puffguts. He just made me do too many chores. Bryce and I spent a lot of time complaining about them, but life was good, too.

Outside, the sun was just starting to rise, the first shadows casting over all the buildings. Early morning, nobody else was really around. A perfect time to sneak out if there ever was one. I made my way to Bryce and I's secret corner of the walls, tugged on the loose brick and pulled out our bag of holding. Nifty little thing, can hold anything you want inside it. Digging around its depths, I found the key.

One unlocked cellar door, a trip down a dusty, moldy tunnel, and a quick sprint up a ladder later, I was outside the walls. Just like old times, which is kind of a weird thing to say when 'old times' was only a couple of days ago.

I just had one question, as I glanced around the forests of Coast Way: where in Faerûn am I going to _find_ them? They could be anywhere, along the road, any city or town. So, I started on the dirt path ahead of me. Imoen the Magnificent's Grand Adventure! A young woman, setting off to find her best friend and their mentor to _save the world_! Awesome!

Then, by a nearby tree, I found Bryce, and things were definitely _not_ awesome. He was leaned up against its trunk, asleep like a little baby. But his shoulder was burnt or singed or something, and he was still in that suit of plate armor. How can you _sleep_ in that? There was one other problem: I didn't see Gorion anywhere.

Nudging his burly sleeping form awake, I called to him "Heya, big guy."

He shot up, pushed me away, and then finally got a good look at me.

"Imoen?" I guess it's not surprising, his reaction. I shouldn't be out here, after all.

"Who else would it be?!" I say, pumping a fist in the air and striking a heroic pose.

He smiled. "It's…really nice to see you." He said, finally relaxing. "Listen, last night, Gorion and I got attacked, ambushed." He starts to explain, going into Serious Mode, moving his hands around to articulate his points.

I think I know where this is going. "What happened to him?" I ask anyway, because I'm not sure I'll believe it unless he says it himself.

He stops moving, and looks over past me, vaguely northwest from where we're standing. "He…" he bites off the end of the sentence, clearly struggling. "It's alright, I think I get it." I say, putting a hand on his not crispy shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"None of this makes any sense." He says, softly, shaking his head, not like how Bryce would say it, almost a whisper. "Two days ago, I was just a guy living in Candlekeep, trying to do right by my foster father. Now I'm being attacked wherever I go, people are _dying_ to keep me alive, I just don't understand, Imoen. I don't understand _why_ this is happening!" He says, pushing me away again, turning around and slamming a plated fist into the tree. He screams, in rage or terror or just for release, I don't know. Another punch. Another scream.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, and then turns back to me. "I'm sorry." He says, appearing to relax again, come down from his emotional high.

"It's okay. You want to hear something good, for a change? I know where you and Gorion were supposed to go, and I can help you get there." I say, with a small smile.

"That's right. The other night, you said something about that, didn't you?" He replies, and as he puts his hands on his hips and looks at me, I can see the gears turning in his head. When those gears turn, they turn pretty fast. "Something about not having to go far."

"Just north and east of here, to the Friendly Arm –"

"The Inn! That's what Gorion said too!" He says, punching a fist into a palm. "But why there?"

"There was a letter Gorion got from a friend about that. Something about people he needed to meet there, mutual friends I guess." I tilt my head, trying to remember. It was a long letter, very rambley, probably another old guy writing to him.

Bryce sighs. "Imoen, do you think he might still have that letter on his person?" A tricky question. If I say yes, I think we're going to have to rifle through his body, wherever it is. That's probably not something we should be doing the morning after someone dies.

"Do you know where it happened? Where you got attacked?"

"I do, I'll probably never forget it." He says, looking past me again. "I'll take that as a yes, then? We should investigate there regardless, maybe we'll find some clue as to who was behind this, all of this."

"Are you sure? I mean, he'll probably be…you know, fresh?" I cringe after saying it. Freshly _dead_. A man he had known and loved his whole life.

"It doesn't matter what I think. We have to do it. We have no other leads." He says, boldly striding past me and towards where he was looking earlier. The sun still rising on this cruel dawn, I follow after him, not really wanting to object any longer. Imoen the Magnificent and her sidekick Bryce.

It's about an hour's walk to the site, and, frankly, my feet are a bit sore. How can Bryce move around and do all this stuff in full plate? It doesn't make sense to me. I mean, obviously he's not fully human, he's half-orcish, but still.

He sighs as he takes it in. "Thankfully, it's all still fresh in my mind." He says, pointing over to a circle of soot, surrounded by a larger ring of it on the ground nearby. "There was where Gorion shot a fireball and killed one attacker." He then points over to two dead ogres. "There, two more he killed. The other two aren't here, which means they must have escaped."

I was still observing the carnage, eyes wide. "What…happened?" Is all I can manage.

"Like I said earlier, an attack. Five of them came out from the trees and demanded me. Gorion refused to hand me over, and so we fought. I had to run. I shamed and embarrassed myself, and traded Gorion's life for my own." He says, looking down at the ground, mumbling the last part.

The two of us just stand there. Birds chirp in the nearby trees. The wind rustles under-shrub and branches, and the ocean waves rise and fall softly in the far distance.

"You fought? Weren't you scared, or nervous, or - "

"Running on adrenaline. It was fight, or die, or whatever was supposed to happen to me. You see what I mean, though? None of this makes any sense to me." He says, shaking his head again and letting out a deep breath.

Yeah, it's not really making any sense to me either. He starts off towards Gorion's body, still swaddled in his robes, stained with blood. I put a hand up. "Wait. What should I do? I wanna help, Bryce. You can't do this by yourself."

He stops, considers what I said, hopefully. His back is so huge, I can hardly believe we both used to be children not so long ago. "Can't I? Alright, you keep watch. I'd rather not get eaten by wolves or whatever else is out here. I understand that you want to help, you came out here after me, after all. I just…need to do this. I need to see his body, take in all of this."

"Okay." Is all I say in return. He's got to process this, let it all hit him, I guess. I dunno if that's necessarily healthy, but if it's how he wants to handle it, I'll let him. So I turn around, and keep a sharp eye on our surroundings. The early morning light would be beautiful if not for our circumstances. The ocean is calm, and Candlekeep stands proudly in the distance, just over the horizon. Sighing, I turn back around to watch Bryce.

He's going through Gorion's pockets, poring over everything he finds. A bag with some gold pieces, and assorted scrolls. He stands up, walks over to a dagger on the ground nearby, picks it up, and turns it over in his hand. Then, he walks back over to Gorion's body and hefts it up onto his back, and walks back over to me.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"We can't just leave his body here to rot. I say we take it back to Candlekeep, let them inter him there. He did love Oghma, after all, for what good that did him." He says, bitterly.

His eyes are wet, and he chokes out his words. "Before we go anywhere, let's just take a breather, maybe check out those scrolls you dug up, huh? Don't be in such a hurry to fix everything, do everything."

"I know, I just…" He sniffles, picks at an eye. "You're right. You're…just right, yeah." He lays down the body gently and sits, taking off a gauntlet and wiping at his face with a green hand. I sit down too, and then he just starts sobbing. I pull him into a hug.

Kind of funny, really. I don't think I've ever seen Bryce cry before. He doesn't say anything, and neither do I. There's nothing really good to say, in this situation. My big adventure to save the world…let's just call it a rough start. Things will get better, for me and for my best friend.


	6. Xzar

**Chapter 6: Xzar**

Ah, another glorious afternoon! Look at how the sun just _shines_ straight above our heads, the noontime guardian angel of all! The clouds part and seem to kneel in deference before its radiant glory! The _blueness_ of the sky, like the first bruises on a child learning to become a man! Oh, I could just _squeal_ in delight, I tell you!

Unfortunately, Montaron doesn't like it when I squeal. " _Shut it_ , ya balmy 'nit!" He would say, with no delay, no compromising my treasure, my view of this wonderful day. For a Halfling, he sure isn't very jovial.

Well, dear Mother and Father weren't very jovial either, and look what happened to them! The first victims of Xzar, the cheeriest, most jovial necromancer in all the Sword Coast! Or maybe it was my Aunt and Uncle. So hard to keep track of who dies when, the bodies usually just sort of pile up. When they do, it's _amazing_ , I say! So much pink flesh, stripped bare of those qualities….

Speak of the devil, here comes two _exquisite_ samples of flesh, before my unworthy eyes! Look at the _smoldering, simmering_ of that half-orc young man, standing a head and a half above me and three or four above Montaron, green skin wrapped in a tight cocoon of plate armor, looking for all the word like a walking armory! Next to him is the light to his darkness, it would seem; a chipper looking lass! What a _delightful_ pair! They're coming this way, just up the road! Is this day just getting better, or what!?

The half-orc and the human girl notice me first, because who _wouldn't_ notice the great and powerful Xzar! My tattoos seem to catch their eyes and hold them, trapped like the _ungrateful swine that kept me trapped inside my own home_ –

Those _eyes!_ The blackness of his eyes! Black, like the coal used to start those most tempestuous flames! Black, like the sky when the sun sets, before the arrival of the first stars! Simply empty, cold darkness! _What a sight!_ What a magnificent pair of _eyes!_

"Excuse me, good sirs." The half-orc says, walking up to us with the lass trailing just behind.

"Montaron!" I turn to my companion. "Look at these poor, weary souls! They have been set upon by some unknown danger, some fearsome wrath!"

He takes a second to size them up; his eyes dart to the half-orc's shoulder, which looks to have nearly melted off of his person, or at least the plate covering it.

"Aye, they look to be in rough shape, wizard." He says, looking at me while never quite pivoting his attention away from the pair. _That's_ my Monty! Always prepared for a good scrap, a good _killing_.

"Friend, please, take this, a token of goodwill from strangers on the road." I say, fishing through my robes, green as the grass that surrounds us, and pulling out a potion of healing. "It would be a disservice _not_ to help you!" I say, cackling, and I meant every word. My eyes, bright, sparkling and inviting, would brook no disagreement.

The half-orc looks to his friend, hesitating. She merely shrugs. _Take it!_ Drink _deep_ from its healing sustenance! Become as _bright_ and _whole_ as this stupendous day!

His hand reaches to the potion and retreats quickly with it, seeming hesitant even in swiftness. He stares me down with those eyes of his. My hands drag down my cheeks. "Oh, I can't take it any longer! Just _drink it!_ " I wail.

Montaron just sighs next to me. "If it'll shut him up, it be a good idea, I say." He comments. _Shut me up!?_ The _nerve_ of such a _foolish sugg –_

He drinks the potion. _Betrayal!_ I claw at my face, gnashing and moaning. "You can't 'shut up' the _truth_ , Montaron! It will shine bright as the wondrous sun above our heads!"

"If I could interject…" The half-orc starts.

"We need to get to the Friendly Arm Inn. Do you two know the best way?" His friend finishes, smirking as she glances at him. Oooh, cut right to the chase, shall we? The deepest cut first, bleed out the jugular? What a _delicious_ idea.

"Lass, we're at the Great Crossroad. Jus' follow this way north, and you'll be there in not a day's time." Montaron helpfully explains, jerking a thumb backwards, northwards.

"But _Montaron,_ that's the _wrong way!"_ He shoots me a sidelong pair of daggers. Montaron's eyes are killer's eyes, but not nearly as _interesting_ as the half-orc's, not by a long shot. "They should come with us to – "

"To Nashkel? What good would they be there?" He refutes, flatly. "Couple o' swaddlin' babes not fit to fight a cold, much less what'ver be in those mines."

This time, the half-orc steps in. "I've seen my share of danger, already. If we go with you, we'd more than prove ourselves capable. Plus, we need to repay you for your generous gift." He says, shaking the half-empty potion bottle.

Montaron stops, crosses his arms, now turning his attention fully to our green friend. "You, fine, but the lass…"

Just then, a demonic baying and howling cry pierces the air. "Wolves," the half-orc says. "About seventy paces east, coming through the trees. Aiming to flank us, it appears."

His friend balks. "How –"

" _It's time!_ " I shout. " _The thrill_ of the _hunt!_ _Life,_ or _death!_ To _arms!"_ Drawing my dagger, I charge eastward. "Wait! By all the bloody hells, _wait_ y' damn fool!" Montaron runs after me, and our two new friends follow as well.

I _see_ them! Oooh, I _see_ them for what they really are! Nothing more than savage _beasts_ , waiting to die at the most capable hands in the Realms! They emerge as one, a pack of them from the forest, like tentacles from the deep ocean, like the undead from their graves!

" _Vita…Mortis…Careo!"_

The chant, the chant, the wonderful _song_ of necromancy, the song that drains the very marrow from their bones, the pink from their flesh, their _soul_! _Sing, Xzar_! _Sing_ , and conduct the cacophonous orchestra of _death!_

I pull my hand back, and one wolf yips, its last great gasp as it drops dead. _Yes!_ _Die_ , and know that you never truly _lived_ , unless your name is _Xzar!_

The rest barrel forward. Could this be the _end_? The sweet release from this mortal coil?

Never, I say! Not while my friends are here!

An arrow races forward from behind me, stabbing through the flank of one and causing it to fall.

"Nice shot, lass!" Montaron calls, as he and the half-orc end up in front of me, two bastard swords and a shortsword at the ready. "Three left, lad. Think y' can take 'em? Think y' can stand against these animals?"

"Watch me." He says, and the two of them charge. One claws at Montaron, and he steps to his right, a beautiful twirling slash across its neck sends it to its doom. The half-orc rolls forward, towards the remaining two. They jump, together, as one, and with a duck and upward thrust of both blades, they fall the same way.

What's left…is beautiful _carnage_! Terrifying, awe-inspiring, the power of _teamwork_ , of _heroes!_ Blades are sheathed, breaths of exertion are drawn, and the day seems to be growing more _exciting_ by the minute!

"Just be glad those weren't people. Not as easy t' take those down." Montaron says, sheathing his shortsword, blood still drooling off of it.

"We did it! Awesome!" The girl shouts, running up to the rest of us. "Bryce, that was amazing! How did you know –"

Bryce? Hmmm, so that's his name.

"Imoen, they were hungry, and scared. This wasn't…awesome." He replies, a hand going to his helmeted head as he looks around at what we accomplished.

Bryce, and Imoen. Good names, _strong_ names.

Montaron cocks up an eyebrow. "Bryce, was it? The lass, Imoen, raises a good point. How did ye know they was there?"

"Imoen and I spent a fair bit of time out here, in the wilderness, in our youths. It was the only place to go besides Candlekeep. Somehow, I've developed an affinity for it, I suppose. Animals, plants, nature. I recognized the wolves' position based on the tracks they left," he says, pointing to the visible paw prints from where we were to this spot, "and by the sounds they made, cracking twigs and such."

"Lad, having a good set of eyes and ears can't cut it. There's something else t' those senses of yours."

"Something positively _interesting!_ " I shout, grabbing a shoulder of each man with free hands. "We simply _must_ let them come with us now!" I can't help but giggle.

"Must we, ye blimy…" Montaron mutters.

"If you'll agree to head north first, to the Friendly Arm, we'd be happy to accompany you." Bryce says, carefully removing himself from my grasp and taking a few cautious steps back.

Imoen purses her lips and gives Bryce a good stare. " _We_ should probably, you know, _discuss_ this first?"

"There's nothing to discuss!" I say, placing myself in the middle of our haphazardly formed circle. "You're a great shot, Montaron's got a killer's instinct and skill, Bryce has senses and sensibility beyond questioning," I say pointing to each member of our team, "and _I_ , of course, am the greatest necromancer in all the Sword Coast! We're _unstoppable!_ " I finish, laughing, throwing my head back and simply daring nature to prove me wrong.

Everyone is silent for a bit after that.

Imoen is the first to speak. "Yeah, let's just…get going…"


	7. Bryce, Near the Friendly Arm Inn

**Chapter 7: Bryce, Near the Friendly Arm Inn**

The four of us, Imoen, Xzar, Montaron and I, found ourselves breaking for camp, with Imoen and I sitting near a crackling fire, the night after our first meeting. According to Montaron's directions, we were headed the right way to reach the Friendly Arm Inn; north on the Coast Way from the Great Crossroad, as he called it.

I'd never heard of that place having a name before, but it does make sense; north to the Friendly Arm and Baldur's Gate, south to Beregost and, eventually, Nashkel, and west back home, to Candlekeep. Already, it feels so far away. It's hard to remember that just a few days ago, I never would've dreamed of going on a journey like this one. Maybe I would've dreamt of it, but to actually do it? That was the stuff of novels, tales of heroes like Elminster and Drizzt Do'Urden.

Imoen came and sat next to me on our makeshift log bench, looking radiantly happy even amongst this deep darkness.

"Hey, you! Looking moody as usual." She said, plopping down and sticking her tongue out at me.

"I don't think you can blame me for that," I counter, staring into the fire, hands clasped. "Considering what we've already been through, what _I've_ been through…" I continue, and turn to look at her. Her smile fades, and she twists her mouth sideways.

"Yeah, sorry. I wanted to ask you about what happened earlier today, with the wolves." We didn't talk much after the four of us agreed to travel together, trying to concentrate on our surroundings, make sure we didn't run into more wild animals or the bandits that are said to be so prevalent. I wondered, on that several hour march, if Imoen and I hadn't just found ourselves a pair of them, and would be accosted or worse on the way.

"What of it?" I have to ask, because she doesn't.

"Well, I dunno how to say this best, but…I think you didn't tell us the whole truth." She says, pausing for several seconds, forming the inquiry in her mind, a novice sculptor forming their first expensive clay pot. Then, she looks at me, then quickly back to the fire, almost like she didn't believe it herself.

"That's because, Imoen…" I start, and look over to Xzar and Motaron's side of the camp, narrowing my eyes, focusing my view. Somehow, I know that they're alive but sleeping. Somehow. _How?_ "I didn't. Or rather, I couldn't. Between the night of Gorion's death and now, my senses have sharpened. I did recognize the wolves' tracks and noises, but I also knew, beyond all doubt, where they were and that they lived, their intent to kill. That part I couldn't explain, so I didn't say." I finish, still not quite sure what exactly I'm describing.

She looks back to me, relieved, much to my surprise. "Okay, that's great, I didn't want to accuse you of lying or anything. But, uh…" She tries to reply, but cuts herself off, kneading her hands together, fidgeting.

"It's strange, right? It's unusual, even for a nonhuman. It doesn't make rational sense." I say.

"Yeah. Nobody's gonna believe you until they see it. Why do you think you got this, um, sixth sense of yours?" She's asking a lot of questions, which is great, but unusual behavior for her.

"After I…ran," I almost can't say it, but force myself to continue, "and collapsed, I had a dream unlike any I've ever had."

Her eyes widen in response. "What kind of dream? Were there weird voices, and blood everywhere?"

I can only lift an eyebrow to reply. "Imoen, did you also have a dream recently?"

" _Yes_! It was _so weird_!" She almost shouts, but jerks her head back to our sleeping companions when her voice gets too loud.

"Did you say blood? And voices? It sounds more like a nightmare."

She explains, or tries to, in further detail. My impression…it wasn't good. None of it. Voices she had never heard before, and blood filling the world. It might be more accurate to call it a vision than a dream, ill portents abound. Not to mention Alaundo's prophecy.

I sigh. "Well, would you like to hear more about my –" before I can finish the thought, I feel another presence. _One person, a short ways north, no intent to murder. Arcane energy. Spellcaster?_ Near instantaneously, my mind processes all this information it should have no way of knowing, fires it off in rapid bursts to me.

"Trouble?" Imoen says, quickly looking to me and following my eyes.

I stand up, hold out a hand. "I don't think so, but somebody is getting closer, taking the road south towards us. I'll scout up ahead and meet them." Before she can object, I cautiously make my way through the short distance from our camp back to the road. I could just let them by, but I need to know more about what these mysterious senses of mine are telling me. Is this person important?

Imoen is just behind me, but doesn't follow me out onto the road itself. A good thought, on her part. She can have an arrow trained, ready to fire in a heartbeat. We've only been at this for a day at most, and it seems we're both developing the skills we'll need to survive.

An old man approaches me. He hunches slightly as he walks on dirt and gravel, a walking stick in hand. Probably some sort of staff. His bright red robes stand out even against the backdrop of evening. When he looks at me, the wrinkles on his face crease into a smile. Does he know who I am?

"Ho there, wanderer! Stay thy course to indulge an old man." He shouts, traversing the distance between us rather quickly, considering his advanced age. "It's been a tenday or so since I've had decent conversation. These days, travel seems to be the domain of either the desperate or the deranged. Might I ask which pertains to you?" Desperate or deranged, he says. Not exactly wrong. Bandits prowl the roads, and I'm traveling with people who would match those two words almost perfectly.

"I think I'd prefer determined." I say, my hands relaxing off the hilts of my swords, and coming up folded over my chest. "Just headed up to the Friendly Arm for some much-needed rest."

"A great inn, that, and just to the north of here. I have a feeling you'll meet some very good friends there." He says, winking as he moves past me. Wait…good friends, at the Friendly Arm? Could he be –

"It seems you've answered my query well enough. So I shall leave you to your travels and your troubles. A good evening, and I hope we meet again in better circumstances." He says, seeming to disappear into the shadows between the trees.

When I return to Imoen, she looks about as surprised as I was. "Who was that guy?" She voices my thought perfectly, her nose crinkling as she looks to where he apparently vanished.

"I've got a pretty good idea." I say, as we make our way back to our camp. I pull out a scroll from our team's pack (courtesy of Xzar and Montaron, who were baffled as to why we didn't have a place to store such important items.) Motioning to Imoen, I unroll it and place it on the ground by the fire.

 _My friend Gorion,_

 _Please forgive the abruptness with which I now write, but time is short and there is much to be done. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner foretold, and certainly not in the proper time frame. As we both know, forecasting these events has proved increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. We have done what we can for those in thy care, but the time nears when we must step back and let matters take what course they will. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering to this point._

 _Despite my desire to remain neutral in this matter, I could not, in good conscience, let events proceed without some measure of warning. The other side will move very soon, and I urge thee to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover. A fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point._

 _Should anything go awry, do not hesitate to seek aid from travelers along the way. I do not need to remind thee that it is a dangerous land, even without our current concerns, and a party is stronger than an individual in all respects. Should additional assistance be required, I understand that Jaheira and Khalid are currently at the Friendly Arm Inn. They know little of what has passed, but they are ever thy friends and will no doubt help however they can._

 _Luck be with us all.  
I'm getting too old for this._

 _E_

I look at Imoen, who's scratching her head as she looks at it. "What about it? It's the letter Gorion got from… _ohhh_ …" It finally snaps into place, and her scratching hand turns into a fist and lightly hits her noggin. "The _other_ _old guy!_ "

"Exactly. It seems we ran into our mysterious E. He knew that we would meet someone at the Friendly Arm, 'good friends,' which means he must know these two, Khalid and Jaheira. He also seemed to recognize me, which means he most likely knew Gorion. It's circumstantial, but the evidence is compelling."

"Hah, you're sounding like one of those detective types. Maybe we'll have to solve a murder next?" She says, giggling.

Murder. Not an easy word for me to stomach. Imoen's strange dream involved a prophecy Alaundo made about the Lord of Murder. My own foster father lies dead, murdered in cold blood by a man who looked more like a force of nature than a person. Now, out here in the thick of the Sword Coast's conspiracies, wide wilderness, and danger, we ourselves will have to commit the atrocious act in order to make it to tomorrow. _Murder_.

"Who knows, right? For now, let's just get some rest. Tomorrow, we should make it to the Friendly Arm, and hopefully Khalid and Jaheira will have some answers."

"I just hope they're not crazy. You know, would be nice for a change of pace." She says, looking with poorly-veiled contempt at our newest companions, who didn't make stellar first impressions on her.

I can only nod in agreement. It's a hard thought for me to think, but I have to think it anyway; those two may be unbalanced, but they might be the only reason we're still alive right now. Gorion, watch over us on our way. I will do your life justice. I will remember you always. I will find whoever did this and deal with them, whatever it takes.


	8. Jaheira

**Chapter 8: Jaheira**

From all the hustle and bustle inside the Friendly Arm, you would think this would be a place where there was constant movement, action, thriving sprawl, perhaps nature's greatest enemy. Unfortunately, my husband Khalid and I have had to wait here for what seems like an eternity.

Gorion, at the behest of our mutual friend Elminster, is supposedly bringing his ward here to meet us. I say 'supposedly' because it has been at least a full day since we arrived. Deciding to wait and see if they appeared, Khalid and I agreed to sleep in rotating shifts, so that one of us could always be watching the entrance. The wait only increases my anxiety, my tension; could something have happened to them? Should we fear the worst?

The Friendly Arm did little to ease my mind. It seemed like there was a never ending stream of guests coming in and out at all hours, little ants darting in and out of their grand hill, their cavernous network of tables, chairs, mugs full of ale and bellies fuller still of laughter and good cheer. Could we have missed them? I should think not. Though it has been nigh unto a decade since Khalid and I last laid eyes on Gorion's ward, there would be no mistaking the two; a surprisingly stolid older man, and a young half-orc.

Occasionally, I would glance from our claimed table in a corner of the first floor to Bentley Mirrorshade, dutifully manning the inn's counter as always. It is only thanks to his generosity that we have been able to stay this long, merely on our word of having arrived on Harper business. I should remember to thank him again once we have concluded the task at hand.

As Khalid arrived from upstairs to signal our changing of the guard that has become so routine, a party of four enters the inn. Khalid sits down next to me in a hurry once he sees the one at the front, stuffed into a suit of plate armor, with green skin and raven-feather eyes that seem to dash between points of interest. Just behind him, a smaller human girl steps out to his side, taking in the building and its patrons with eyes that seem to be drinking her surroundings in as much as observing them.

Just behind them…I recognize those two. Xzar and Montaron, two representatives of the Zhentarim. No good can come from associating with them. They disrupt the Balance wherever they go. When Khalid meets my gaze, it seems we are thinking the same thing. Could Gorion's ward have found his way into the arms of cruel masters? Swept along in fate's great tide, separated from his home and foster father?

They sit at a table near the entrance, but far away from us.

"D-dear, what should we do?" Khalid leans in and asks. He smells of must and old sheets, but he is still my husband, whom I can find little words to disparage. His golden tan skin, eyes the brown of a fine maple's bark, and his soothing, if slightly stuttering voice serve to release some of my tension.

"The best course of action is patience. Gorion's ward must know we are here, and soon will approach us. How he chooses to do so will shape our encounter." I say, my tone commanding and stern as always. Sometimes I worry I can show no other emotion. Khalid nods in response.

I direct my attention to their table. They appear animated in discussing something, though I cannot overhear what, due to the din of all the surrounding clanking, chattering, and uproarious laughter of the other guests. The half-orc appears to be talking to, asking each other person seated something. Xzar throws his head back and laughs, while Montaron appears ready to slam his partner face-first into the table. The girl looks on, furrowing her brow and cupping her chin with two fingers.

Then, he stands up and heads towards the counter, eyes never ceasing their rapid movement this way and that. What is he so afraid of? This is a safe haven for all weary travelers; Bentley sees to that. He removes several coins from a pouch and hands them over to Mr. Mirrorshade. Most likely negotiating for rooms. Then, his wandering eyes stop at us. Even glancing sidelong, I can tell he knows who we are. He looks back to his table and heads towards us, the girl hopping up from their table and following suit.

"Excuse me," he says, finding and empty seat and sitting down. "Are you Khalid and Jaheira? I couldn't help but notice your arms, armor. You don't look like regulars." Continuing, his eyes drift from Khalid's helmet to his splint mail, to my collection of leathers and hides, down to my right hip, where my scabbard hangs loosely.

"Bryce, don't you remember them? They came to Candlekeep that one time Gorion asked them to, when we were real little." The girl says, taking the last empty chair and poking him in the arm. Bryce, is it? The name corresponds to my memory. This one must then be…

"As I recall, Imoen, you tried to trip them with loose banana peels. Yes, I do remember. Those are fond memories, I can't believe I nearly…" He says, then stops himself, exhales loudly out of his nose. "But they are in the past now, aren't they? I'd rather discuss the present, the future."

"A good attitude in these troubled times." I add, nodding my agreement.

"Where is Go-Gorion, Bryce? Is he not with you?" Khalid asks, looking to both of them for an answer.

Bryce sighs. Imoen looks between the two, not sure whether to respond or wait for her friend to.

"They got attacked the first night they left. Um…it didn't really go so well, I guess." She finally says, after she probably just couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"It was several nights ago now. Since then, I've resolved to this; finding who killed him, and trying to keep a decent perspective on things, as he would've." Bryce says, folding his hands together as he places his arms on the table.

"And what will you do when you find them, exactly?" I say, leaning a hand into a cheek.

"Truthfully, I don't know. I should want to kill them, but revenge is so hollow a thing, so weak and petty. I simply wish to understand why it had to happen, and then perhaps I'll get justice." He says, shaking his head the whole while.

"You are co-co-correct, young man. Vengeance is not the answer, blood paid with blood is to-too high a price." Khalid adds. I suppose he would know; he too desired revenge, but against his own father, and not for him. Time and experience have given him perspective on things, it seems.

"There's only one paying in blood tonight, and it's the half-orc sitting right there." Another, a person none of us saw, steps out of the shadows. His face fully obscured by darkness, all I can see are the hands, callused and worn, all I can hear is his voice, husky and sonorous. His fingers dance in intricate patterns; a mage!

Before he finishes his incantation, I rise from my seat, along with the rest of us. Drawing a sling and a bullet from my belt, I load and fling it as fast as my arms would let me, moving purely on instinct. He dodged out of the way, the bullet flying into a nearby table.

Guests scream and duck under tables, getting up and running upstairs or outside, while Bentley creeps under the counter and disappears from sight. Bryce too leaps into action, moving with swiftness I have rarely seen. Before blades could be drawn, before bows strung or spells chanted, he grabbed the mage by hems of his robes near his hood, bashed his enemy's head with his own, and rushed him into the nearby wall, the impact causing nearby furniture to shake. He pressed the mage's neck into the wall with his forearm and held steady, as the rest of us made our way to them.

The mage struggles valiantly against his opponent, taller and stronger. Both men breathe heavily and harshly from the exertion, but Bryce's plate grip holds, an anaconda coiling around its doomed prey. The five of us form a semi-circle around the two.

"Bryce, this guy's another assassin, isn't he?" Imoen asks, frowning.

"Another? How many of these men and women have tried to kill you?" I draw my mouth into a hard line as I consider the full reality of what this girl just said.

"Aye, too many, I fear, even one's usually t' many. Too bad this one's not very good at his job." Montaron comments, spitting on the floor.

" _Assassins?_ This is just the _best!_ " Xzar screams, smiling with teeth too perfect for a man of his wicked nature, his more wicked still temperament.

"Who are you? Who sent you?" Bryce says, gritting, pushing his captive enemy further against the wall, appearing to wish to drive him straight through it.

"No one, you ignorant fool!" The mage manages to gasp, cough out. "You'll get nothing from me! I'm a simple bounty hunter, my trade demands my secrecy." Is he smirking?

"Easy enough then. Gut t' rat, and let's see what he's got on 'im." Montaron says, wiping his nose with a finger, almost like he was describing something more mundane, like yesterday's weather.

"Or," I start, crossing my arms, "we could perhaps let him live. The Balance dictates – "

"Balance, schmalance, I say. Better to never 'ave to deal with his kind again than hug a tree and hope they go away." Montaron ripostes.

"How dare you speak so im-impertinently to my wife!" Khalid, raising his voice, steps between us.

"It's alright." I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. He turns back to me, blinking rapidly. "Bryce is the one who holds him captive. Let us see what he decides."

"I don't think it's right to kill him, either." Imoen says, looking down at the ground and mumbling as she scratches at her head.

"It's not _right_ , per se, but certainly it'll be _interesting_. Can our hero stave off his inner turmoil, his frothing, seething darkness? A _chilling_ conundrum!" Xzar says, leaning in close to the rest of us, rubbing his hands together.

"My companions have made their opinions known. Tell me, simple bounty hunter, do you wish to live, or die? Choose your words carefully, for your fate rests in your hands." He says, relaxing his grip just slightly.

"Live, of course. What man in the Realms would choose to die?"

"Fair enough. But know this. Not everyone gets to make the choice you just did. Remember that the next time you wish to kill someone for a few bits of coin." Bryce says, and punches him deep in his gut, reaching to his solar plexus. He loses the breath in his lungs, and the half-orc lets his unconscious body fall onto his shoulder.

Bentley comes up from behind the counter. "Jaheira! Take that man outside and let the guards deal with him! Bad for business, this trouble of yours."

"Of course, Bentley." I reply, nodding. "Come then, let us take our live friend outside, and see what spoils we can find before the guards arrive. The Balance would wish it so." I resist the urge to laugh out loud as Montaron rolls his eyes, Xzar bites at his nails cackling, and Bryce leads us to the entrance. What have Khalid and I gotten ourselves into, I wonder. What could come of all of this?


	9. Imoen, Outside the Friendly Arm Inn

**Chapter 9: Imoen, Outside the Friendly Arm Inn**

I'm really glad Bryce didn't decide to kill that guy.

I mean, obviously he was a bad guy, he came after us first, but things have been so hard for him these past few days. He listened to everybody, and then gave him a choice. That's probably not the last time we'll run into a situation like that, where we have to decide what to do with not enough information.

So now all of us, all six of us, are outside the Friendly Arm Inn, with our mystery guy laying on the ground. It's a bit dark out, so it's hard to see, but there's torches, lanterns and stuff on doors and porches, especially hanging on the outside walls of the Inn itself.

"How long before the guards arrive?" Bryce asks, moving to the mage's pockets.

"The law's always a problem. Can't b' too long, I wager." Montaron says back, scoping our immediate area along with the rest of us. He wanted to kill this guy. That's hard to forgive. Guess I'll have to watch out around him.

"We only just left, so Bentley will have to take some time to get the word around about what transpired." Jaheira says, narrowing her eyes as she looks at Bryce and the body. "Anything of interest?"

"A bag of coins, a scroll, and…" the last thing he pulls out is a book, or a journal maybe. It's heavy, whatever it is.

"P-p-perhaps his wizard's tome? Mages need to store their spells and draw them into their minds, after all." Khalid says, blinking a few times and kneading his forhead.

"Mind if I take a look? I've always been interested in that kinda stuff." I say, grabbing the book out of his hand.

"Imoen, spells are _dangerous!_ Perhaps you should give any thought to looking into the great secrets of the Art…a second try? Reconsider?" Xzar says, skipping over to me and smiling that weird evil smile of his. Creepy. He's too creepy. That's why I didn't want to go with him and his buddy at first, and now that idea's only looking better and better.

Ignoring him, I open the book. The parchment is thick and yellowed; old and used up pretty good. The pages are inscribed with wide, black writing, runes or letters or something, and pictures too. Pictures almost too detailed, sketches of, presumably, what the spells do or look like.

"Hold there, you!" Shouts a female voice. I look up from the book, and everyone else does too. Two guards approach, or at least they sure look like guards, chain mail and swords at their hips. A taller woman, and a shorter man. Based on where their sheaths are, the woman is left handed and the man right. Then, I go right back to reading. Everyone else can figure out what to do here, I imagine.

"Mr. Mirrorshade told us all about the trouble you've been causing. Some kind of fight inside the Friendly Arm's walls? You," the man says, thrusting a finger at Khalid and Jaheira, "of all people should know better!"

Bryce stands up and gets between them. "It was my fault. The man," he says, gesturing to the mage's body on the ground, "came after me. A bounty hunter, seeking to collect. I apologize for the trouble. Perhaps if you just—"

The characters light up on the page I'm reading. My eyes nearly bug out of my head. I trace the pattern forming with my finger, feeling the scritchy-scratch of the parchment under it. Wait…I can read these, can't I? It's like…letters, forming into words.

" _Veritas—"_

"We can't just let you leave like nothing happened! Sure, we're gonna throw the guy in the brig, but first we want some answers! Why was this guy –"

" _Must_ you force us so, under pain of _death?_ Not every question has such a reasonable response! _Why_ did I burn down my own home? _Why_ did my family trap me inside for years?"

"Ya' nutter, _ye_ be the one not reasonable here!"

"G-good friends, please, hear us out. We were merely defending ourselves. Can you not tru-tru-trust my wife and I's word?"

" _Credo_ …"

"Whatever trouble we've brought your inn will leave with us. This I swear. We have what we need from this man, so all we request is that you let us go. Jaheira, you can talk some sense into them, can't you?"

"I will not deny that this was our fault. What we did, we did for the sake of saving ourselves and the Inn. But, as my husband and comrades put so plainly…"

" _Oculos!"_

"Imoen! What are you –"

My fingertips get all tingly as I finish the words, almost like I'm touching something hot I'm not supposed to. I drop the book, and flick my fingers out repeatedly. On the third or fourth go at it, there's a ball of light that shoots out. It's yellow, gold-ish. It darts to the middle of all of us. Then, it splits into fragments that hit each other person. The mage's body twitches and everyone else gasps or yells.

Then, it's chaos.

Everyone starts running, screaming like they just saw a dead body in their bathtub. Khalid and Jaheira cling tightly together. Montaron and Bryce, along with the two guards, sprint away from everyone as fast as they can. Xzar does the weirdest thing of all. He just turns to me, slowly, and smirks.

"Horror. That's what spell you cast." He tilts his head. "Good thing I have nothing left to be afraid of, wouldn't you say? Nothing, except perhaps that I won't stay this way forever."

Before I can ask "What way?" He shakes, twitches, his whole body seeming to try to come undone. Then, he takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes tight, opens them, and goes back to normal.

At the same time, everyone comes running back to us. Khalid and Jaheira disentangle, and then there's another flurry of activity.

"The lass is a _mage!?_ "

"I didn't know! I just read what was in the book –"

"Did you know wh-what that spell was, Imoen?"

"Well, no, but –"

The guards take the mage's body in a hurry, and the woman turns back to us as they walk off.

"You were right, all of you. Too much trouble for us to deal with. Best be on your way, before you invite any more disaster."

"Disaster?" Bryce says to the air as they leave earshot. "Imoen. You've got some explaining to do. How did you cast that spell?" He says, turning to me and looking pretty darn intense. Looks kind of like Gorion or Puffguts when I got in trouble.

I stammer. I can't find any words when he looks like that. My mouth twitches.

"Clearly, she does not know. She does not need all of us badgering her." Jaheira stands in front of me and says it like she wasn't just a screaming ninny five seconds ago.

"Child, perhaps it would be be-best if you did not look at that book any longer."

"I agree. I don't wanna do anything like that again. Sorry guys." I say, looking down and away.

"What about t' rat's scroll? There was a scroll, right?" Montaron says, eyes moving to Bryce.

He pulls it out and unrolls it. His eyes widen, and his jaw locks tight.

"What? What is it? Oh, don't keep us in _suspense!_ " Xzar cries out. What was his deal, anyway? Why did he act all weird when the spell hit him?

He looks to each of us, then back at the scroll. He clears his throat, and begins reading.

"Be it known to all those of evil intent…a bounty has been placed upon the head of Bryce, foster child of Gorion."

"A _bounty?_ " Jaheira, Khalid and I all say it at once.

"How much?" Montaron asks, brow furrowing, licking his lips.

"Those returning with proof of the deed shall receive no less than…two hundred gold coins."

"Feh, not worth it, I'd say." He says, seeming to relax again.

"So, the bounty hunter didn't lie. It seems I'm a wanted man." Bryce says, rolling up the scroll and almost crushing it between his hands. "If any of you wish to go your separate ways, I wouldn't hold it against you. Following someone with assassins and bounty hunters and who knows what else on their trail…"

"Is so _exciting!_ " Xzar finishes his thought, though probably not the way he would've. "Through thick and thin, through anyone that stands in our way! What an _adventure!_ "

"We will not abandon you, child. Gorion would never forgive us." Jaheira says, smilling.

"That's right, dear. We are your guardians, no matter what." Khalid adds, nodding as the two turn to each other and agree with their eyes as much as their words.

"Someone's got 'ta keep this nutcase in line, and he certainly ain't going nowhere." Montaron grumbles.

"I wanna help, too! Who's gonna jimmy all those pesky locks and cause trouble without me!" I say, trying to recover from the weird thing that just happened. Am I really a mage, like Montaron said? It makes me nervous just thinking about it.

Bryce puts his hands on his hips and sighs. "Thank you, all of you, sincerely. So, onwards south to Nashkel, then?" He says, and we turn and walk away as a group.

I turn around on my heels and take one last look at the Friendly Arm. It's a nice place. Just wish we could've stayed a bit longer. When I turn back around, I see Xzar has the mage's book and is poring over it. Oh no. If there's _anybody_ that shouldn't have that thing…


	10. Montaron

**Chapter 10: Montaron**

Buncha goody two-shoes, this lot.

We've got Khalid and Jaheira, joined at t' hip by their weddin' vows as well as their meddlin' Harper business. 'Balance' this and 'Balance' that, all they ever seem t' talk about. The lad and the lass don't know, but Jaheira be a powerful druid, from some circle in some backwoods somewhere. Don't make much sense to me, t' be honest. What two figs do I give about nature?

And speakin' of figs I can't be bothered to give, the lass and the lad, Imoen and Bryce. Everybody out here nowadays has some sadsack weepin' tale about how their papa or mama died or how they're all alone. Fie to that, I say. Make it on your own or die like the rest of us who can't or won't pick up a sword and gut somebody if'n we have n' other choice. I'm pretty sure Imoen has never had to kill a man, and Bryce seems like he's tryin' t' carry both their burdens by his lonesome.

As for my 'partner,' ugh. Let's not spend any more time on him than we have t'.

Thankfully, I actually get t' ask her the question, now that we've stopped marching along the road and are takin' a short break t' eat.

"Lass, I've got something I've been meanin' to ask." I say, biting into a biscuit, more like a military ration, t' be honest, all hard and crunchy. Blegh.

"What's that?" She responds, narrowin' her eyes. She don't trust me or Xzar, not from the start she hasn't. She knows we're trouble, and I know she knows we're trouble. She looks over me head, not hard to do mind, but I notice she's checking out what everybody else is doing.

I turn and follow her eyes with me own; Xzar and Jaheira are watching Bryce and Khalid play at swords, practice they call it. Feh, use real metal and try to _gut_ one another; that's how you practice for when it really matters, I say.

"Have ye ever had to kill?" I come straight out with it; no point beatin' around a bush as dense as this one, filled with anecdotes about the past, with determination or innocence tainted.

She returns to me immediately; looks like I got her attention. She shakes her head. "Not yet, Monty. I hope I never have to, either."

"Monty?" I say, raisin' a brow. Who gave her the right to –

"Oh, sorry, I heard Xzar say that one time. I thought it was kinda cute, ya know?" She smiles.

"Cute, eh? Lemme tell ye something about cute. Ye see that wagon over there? All burnt to a husk and scavenged?" I say, pointin' away from the group, towards the site that's been buggin' me since we got this far.

She nods, as she follows me finger and kneels down, cuppin' her forehead with a hand and lookin' for herself.

"That's where I used to be, when I was a wee lad. A caravan, just like that one. A circus, a traveling circus, that's what we were." I reach into a pouch on me belt and pull out a knife, specially carved with a straight blade and wide handle. Imoen eyes the knife as I retrieve it. "I threw knives, girl. I was the sharpest blade some had ever seen, the quickest little boy with the steadiest hands."

"That's awesome! How did you learn how to do it so well?"

I smirk. "That was the first time I killed a man. Ye ever heard of Luskan?"

"Rough and tumble port city, right? 'Full of coin and danger, for those willing to accept both,' or so the books say." Now she's really into it.

"Aye, but not so dramatic as ye make it sound. That's where I spent me time, in the streets of Luskan, fending off whoever wanted me bread or me coin from that day. Unfortunately, some greedy sod got a handle on me coin-purse. Stealin', from a child? Can ye believe it? Anyway," I continue, recalling it all vividly.

It was decades ago now, and still the day shines through me memory like a ray of pretty sunshine. The sky was clear, the market busy as ever; merchants from all across Faerûn hawkin' wares legit and fake, shoppers of every race and every class, from stinkin' rich nobles down to the cutpurses like me. I wasn't well known, but some who had seen me before knew to keep out of arm's reach. Somebody didn't get t' memo, and took off running with me pouch of coins. All I had on me was a damn knife.

So what was a stupid kid t' do? I gave chase. The two of us sprinted through the market, knockin' over carts and probably causin' quite the panic as we ran. He was fast, and had longer legs; it was all I could to do keep up, let alone overtake 'im. We came down an alley, and 'e was scramblin' up a wall. I couldn't run him down in time; I had t' stop him before he got up to that roof.

So…I threw me knife. Grabbed t' blade with two good digits and flicked it out with a bent wrist and a hell of a grudge. I aimed for his neck, and hit the base of his head. Pierced right on through. Bugger stiffened, right there on the wall, and fell down. Thud. That was it. Dead.

Imoen, listening quietly, just covers her mouth with a hand. "What happened after that?" She asks, whispers.

"The mercs found me 'afore the guards. I had nowhere else t' go, and the law was gonna be after me sooner or later, so I got conscripted. Bit of a long story, that one, but I've been in and out of merc work for a long time now, takin' breaks and headed back to the circus. Now I've got a moron of a wizard to watch," I say, grimacin' at the thought, "and a pair of kids, too. So think about that next time 'afore you decide I'm 'cute' again, missy."

Before the lass can respond, Bryce approaches us in a low crouch, Khalid and Jaheira just behind. "We've got trouble right where you're looking. Bandits are still at that wagon. We can take them, since they haven't noticed us yet." He says, lookin' to each of us and then over at the wagon itself.

"Where are they, lad? Just point us at 'em and they'll be history." I say, crouchin' as well, trying to take in a better view. Where could they be? Imoen and I 'ave been lookin' over there since we started gabbin'.

He points to a few places, dense with brush and trees, surroundin' it. "They're hiding, likely waiting to spring an ambush on unwary travelers."

"Bryce, seriously, how do you do that? It's kinda scary." Imoen says, frownin' just a bit as she turns to him and asks a rather pertinent question, I feel.

He clams up at that, and Khalid and Jaheira stalk up to the rest of us.

"We split into three pairs, since Bryce pointed out three areas. He claims no more than two bandits at any one location, so with the element of surprise, it should be straightforward." Jaheira says.

"W-where is Xzar?" Khalid asks, before glancin' west and slappin' a hand over his eyes.

"…He's about t' get us into more trouble, ain't he?" I say, sighing.

"Evil beware, for the wrath of _Xzar_ is upon you!"

Bloody idiot can't stay out of trouble _one_ time…he's got a death wish. That's t' only explanation.

"Watch it! It's a mage!"

"Stick to the plan! Gut 'im before he can cast a spell!"

Just as Bryce claimed, the bandits, six in total, emerge from the woods in three pairs.

"There, just off in the distance! He's got help! Dory, Sam, head over there! Mikhail and I will take the –" one starts, but doesn't get to finish; he falls to the ground, choking, grabbing at his neck.

"Alright, new plan; form up, on me!" Bryce says, chargin' out. Another one with a death wish. Feh. Time to go to work. Khalid and Jaheira follow, Jaheira drawin' a scimitar along with a buckler, and Khalid a longsword and bulky looking tower shield. Three on two that way, I gauge, Bryce runnin' into melee with one, clangin' and bangin' swords 'gainst one another, Khalid moving right up to another, and Jaheira…she's preparin' a spell.

I draw a few daggers and glance at Imoen. "Lass, Xzar needs our help the other way. Ye ready?"

"Um, yeah, let's go." She says, fussin' with her bow and pullin' out an arrow. Not ready by a long shot, looks like. Doesn't matter one bit to me either way. Duckin' behind trees, I move from cover t' cover, Imoen trying to follow my lead. A few trees over, I see Xzar doing the same thing, behind a tall oak.

"Ye _moron!_ What are y' thinking!" I shout.

"Mmm, a good question, Monty. Rarely one I consider before the grim work begins." He says, actually tryin' to answer me right now. I nearly burst a blood vessel. Grippin' a knife and trying t' even out my breathing, I turn from behind me cover. One left on this side. Got the right angle. Steady, Montaron. Deep breath. Steppin' out, I flick the knife automatically. It flies straight and true, catching 'im unware and slicin' through an artery. He gurgles, but doesn't get t' scream as he falls.

Unfortunately for me, there weren't just one left. A bolt flies towards me from th' northeast. I jump back, pressin' up 'gainst the tree. It grazes me nose as it whizzes past. Then, an arrow flies from another direction and pierces their head 'afore they can draw another bolt. Pausing in mid-action, they lean over, fallin' to the ground.

Steppin' quickly around the tree, I see Imoen. Lass caught 'em on the crossfire on that one. She sees 'er fall, and drops her bow and puts a hand t' her forehead all in one motion, puttin' her back against the tree and slowly slumpin' down. Always a first time, girl. Just remember it well.

Back on the other side of our makeshift battlefield, Bryce and his team have finished their plate and are headin' towards us.

"Everyone all right? That's all of them." He calls out.

"Oh Bryce, we're doing just _great!_ Isn't this so much _fun_ , everyone?" Fun, he says. Killin' shouldn't be 'fun,' t' anyone, ever. Loon that he is though, I ain't surprised if he's serious.

"Lad, the lass is a bit shaken."

"What happened? Is she hurt?" He says, quickly walkin' over to me and scanning our surroundings. "Where is she?"

I take a deep breath. "She's behind a tree back that way." I say pointin'. "She killed someone, lad. She's gonna want t' be alone for a while."

"Damnation. What kind of world is this, that _she_ has to kill people? What kind of mess is all of this?" He says, sheathin' his swords and walkin' over to where I pointed.

"Did ye hear me? She's going t' be –"

"In need of a friend, little man." Jaheira interrupts, steppin' over to me and sheathing her scimitar and shield.

"Little man? Watch that tongue of yours, harpy, 'afore I cut it out meself."

"Hold, p-please, friends. He is merely doing what he thinks is right. Xzar, next time, w-w-wait for the rest of us before you begin any fighting. You put us all in unnecessary danger."

"But danger is _always_ necessary! It builds _character_! If we can't survive, then we are simply weak. 'Tis a most pragmatic approach, wouldn't you say?" The wizard claims, saunterin' over to our informal gatherin'.

"It's hard to call _anything_ you do 'pragmatic,' Xzar." Jaheira scoffs.

He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. "Mere jealousy, I hear. Happens all the time when you're simply as _powerful_ and _cunning_ as I." He says, stretchin' like he just finished a light jog, not killing several people.

Not even t' Beregost, and already we're starting t' fall apart at the seams. Xzar has that effect on people, though. Soon as I get the chance, I'm guttin' him and walking away.

Talkin' about me past has got me all nostalgic. It's too bad that bit about the circus was a lie. Made a nice cover. Must be t' assassin in me, I guess. Always have to have a cover, a plausible backstory. What would the lass think if she knew I lied t' her face? Not that I'll ever have t' find out.


	11. Imoen, Outside Beregost

**Chapter 11: Imoen, Outside Beregost**

I killed someone.

 _I_ killed someone.

The words, the thought, bounces around in my head, jumping off walls and shouting at me. Everything else, all the other sounds and sights and colors, just seem so far away. Something grips my chest, something heavy and weighty, and it's pressing down all around me. I can't even cry. I want to, really bad, but I'm just sitting here. It's like I forgot how to, like everything else besides this doesn't matter anymore.

"Hey."

Then, a voice that pierces through it. One word, and I shoot back up to attention, and there he is. Bryce. Down on one knee, just looking at me. Seeing him just makes me live it all over again, replaying the scene, our big fight.

"I killed someone, Bryce. I…" I look away, my eyes starting to wet.

He nods. Doesn't he want to say something? Something about how it's all gonna be okay or that I'm gonna be fine, that it was us or them, something he would say? Why doesn't he _say_ something?!

Where did these tears come from? Now I'm sobbing and hiccupping. "I don't like this! I just wanna go home!" I can barely talk now, the words sounding more like wailing noises.

He just sits, and listens, looking at me. I dunno how long we stay like this, or where everyone else is, but I just cry and cry. Maybe he's thinking about whether there's anything he could do or say. I hope he is. Eventually, I stop, still drying my eyes, when he says something.

"You could, you know. It would be pretty easy."

"What? To go home?" I say, just a bit confused.

"You could head back north and then west, unlock that little cellar, and be back to your normal life in two or three days, at most. Once you explain where you were, where I am, what happened to Gorion, the trials and dangers and people you faced and met, everything would just go back to normal." He says, and with every word that heavy feeling gets hotter and hotter, and eventually it ignites into fire.

I stand up, widen my eyes, huff out through my nose. He stands up with me. I jab a finger out at him, shaking, and my hand balls up into a fist.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard! You're _wrong!_ I can't just ignore what's happening out here! You're my friend! I'm not gonna leave you behind and…and just…" I can't even finish my sentence, I'm so mad.

"Pretend things are ever going to be the same?" He finishes it for me.

"How do you do it? You killed people in Candlekeep, and saw Gorion die, and now you're running around the Sword Coast like you own the place. How come you aren't scared or mad or want to go home or –"

His eyes move just past me, lingering on the rest of our team, checking the bodies and talking amongst themselves. Then he looks back to me, the backs of his hands going to his hips.

"I'm looking at the answer. She's standing here, in front of me. It's my friends, my comrades, the people who will stick with me no matter what. The people who would never dream of leaving me behind, who call me stupid for even thinking of it." He says, smirking.

That just makes me wanna cry again. So I do. I charge into him, and he embraces me, a tight hug. The others provide running commentary; I guess they think they're out of earshot.

"You hear that, Monty? Those _delicious_ tears? That's the sound of _innocence_ dying. Music to my ears!"

"Innocence never dies, ye blasted oaf. Ye put it away somewhere when ye kill, and ye never ferget ye had it t' begin with."

"Wise words from a killer, Montaron. Surprising ones, too."

"Surprising, Jaheira? Feh, think I don't know what t' do with innocence. I was a boy once, I know what it's like."

"I b-b-believe she means that your words are surprisingly empathetic to Imoen's p-plight."

"Something like that, I suppose. It's just hard to remember you can empathize at all, the way you coldly dispatch your prey."

"Gods, they just never shut up, do they?" Bryce says, and I start laughing, remembering when he said the same thing about Puffguts. _Do ye have your fifty thousand gold pieces, boy? Hah!_ He would ask, every time Bryce went in the inn, and would laugh that rumbling belly laugh of his. Every time. It's hard to laugh and cry at the same time, I start hiccupping and coughing.

"Feels good, I bet. To laugh and smile even in the face of all of this madness." He says, as we separate.

"Yeah. I think I get Xzar a bit better now." I say, and he just smiles a big toothy smile.

"Dangerous words, Imoen. Next thing you know you'll be singing songs together around the campfire."

"Why does he do that anyway? All the stuff he sings is just creepy."

"I _know_ , right? And his voice is _terrible!_ Sounds like Dreppin's cows, when they're sick."

With that, we both start laughing again.

I guess I proved Bryce's point for him. I'm not gonna leave him, not my best friend. It's gonna take all of us working together to get through this. We need each other, not just for our skills, but so that we can share our experiences, our thoughts and feelings. So we can depend on each other, rely on each other.

I'm not sure I'll ever get over having to kill people. But at least I can stand by the people who matter most to me.


	12. Khalid

**Chapter 12: Khalid**

I'm worried about Bryce.

It's not a word I use lightly, worried. My father would often say he was 'worried' about me, which meant that he thought that I wasn't living up to the example of my brothers. I hated how often he would say it. So I know how condescending that word can sound, how haughty and sure.

Yet, during our sparring sessions and in our first real fight together, he worried me. Even armed with wooden sticks instead of metal, even when he knew we were merely playing at conflict, he came at me with a ferocity and speed I have rarely seen, even in my time with Calimshan's army.

I'm aware that those of Orcish descent often have a streak of cruelty and quickness to anger; Gruumsh lost an eye to Corellon, after all, and all orcs, half-orcs, and orogs are said to feel his pain even to this day. But there was something else to it.

When we fought those bandits, he fought not to disarm or disable. Every thrust, every parry and counter would aim for the neck, the heart. He wanted them to _die_. He wanted to _murder_. Even after it was done, I could almost feel, palpably, the vestiges of his rage; it came off him like steam from a warm meal.

Jaheira, my beautiful, lovely wife, and I, are taking point as we head to Beregost, and so I form a plan. Perhaps not as cunning a one as I'd like, but one that will serve to ease my worries, as well as potentially hers. I lean in close to her.

"Dear, I have a suggestion for wh-what to do when we reach Beregost proper."

"Go on," she says, glancing back to me, clearly intrigued.

"I'd like for us to get to know Bryce and Imoen better. Pe-perhaps we could split up. I could take Bryce to Th-thunderhammer's Smithy, get his armor repaired, and you and Imoen could go shopping for other supplies."

"And what of the Zhentarim? Should we leave them to their own ends?"

"No, o-of course not, dear. But they will do as they wish, regardless. I'm merely th-th-thinking of our youngest companions."

She nods. "Sound, then. I do not like merely leaving the Zhentarim pair to their own devices, but I believe it will be good for us to try to understand Gorion's ward and his friend." She turns, looks back to them. "It is hard to believe she is back to normal after merely one talk with Bryce."

"Killing is not an easy thing to co-come to terms with, certainly."

"Mmh, too true. Ah, we have arrived." She points.

"We _made_ it! Woo!" Comes Imoen's voice from behind, shouting with glee.

"Aye, lass, and a cozy room at t' inn sounds jus' peachy right about now."

"Sick of the _sharp_ twigs, the _dreary_ night sky, are we? Civilization…so many warm bodies! What a _rush!_ "

The party makes some noise as we cross a bridge over a small stream, and get our view of Beregost.

'Tis not a large city, by any means, but it is an important one; a halfway point between Nashkel, bordering the southern nation of Amn, and Baldur's Gate, further to the north. Usually it's home to merchants and weary travelers, adventurers of all races and creeds. It also houses Thunderhammer's Smithy, ran by the renowned dwarven smith Taerom Fuiruim and his sons; a whole clan of smiths, I hear.

As the party crosses the bridge, we gather in a circle.

"So, what's our plan of attack? It is getting pretty late, so I wouldn't mind a stay at an inn." Bryce speaks up first.

"Agreed." Jaheira says. I suppose my plan will have to wait for tomorrow.

"My _feet_ are _killing_ me! How do you guys walk around like this all the time?" Imoen says, shaking out her boots. "Especially you, big guy. Dressed up in all that plate." She continues, looking to her friend.

"Pain is only _relative,_ my dear. If you can learn to block out the nervous impulses that create it –"

"Since when was ye an expert in t' brain, wizard?"

"Since I dissected a few bodies. More than a few, actually. Hmm…" He starts counting on his fingers, squinting, sticking out his tongue.

"D-d-dissected?" I ask, aghast.

A man's voice clears his throat behind us. We all turn to look. Standing before us is a man, taller than I but shorter than Bryce, a mace slung to his hip. His shaved, blonde hair, splint mail, and holy symbol draped around his neck, a splaying sun, point to him being a priest of Lathander.

"You are new to town, I presume? I'm Kelddath, Kelddath Ormlyr, and by Lathander's light I welcome you to Beregost." He says, bowing slightly, one arm over his chest.

"We accept, kindly." Jaheira says, stepping to the front of the group. "Pray tell, good son of the Sun, where might we find an inn to rest our weary bones?"

Imoen snickers, whispering something to Bryce, who shushes her with a finger over his mouth.

"Well, we have several, miss." He takes a quick glance at the rest of our group. He stops at Bryce, lingering for a heartbeat too long. Does he know…?

"If you're looking for somewhere quiet, out of the way, you'll want to head southeast of here, and look for the Burning Wizard." He says, pointing down the path a spell.

"Ye hear that? _Burning Wizard_. Sounds odd appropriate t' my ears."

"Oh, you _wound_ me, Monty!" Xzar cries out, hand going over his heart in mock agony. "Please, no more jests at my expense. I simply cannot take your _wit_ any longer!"

I nod at Mr. Ormlyr. "W-we will be on our way then, thanks again." I say, jerking my head, Jaheira and I leading us in the correct direction.

"Hold just a moment, friends." Kelddath, holding up a hand, says. We stop, turn back to him.

"All are welcome in the light of the Morninglord. But pray, do not cast shadow onto it everlong, for in the end, darkness cannot but acquiesce to light."

"We won't cause any trouble, if that's what you mean." Bryce says, speaking for the first time since we encountered the cleric. "Light and dark check one another, hold each other in balance. As you say, shadows give way to light, but so too, the moon must rise when the sun sets."

"Well spoken, young man." Kelddath says, nodding. "Fare thee well, for now. If you require the services of the Sun, come to the temple east of town a ways. We will aid you as best as we are able." He says, bowing again and departing.

"What was that all about?" Imoen says once he leaves earshot and we start walking again.

"He was talking about me, I know he was." Bryce says.

"Are ye sure, lad? He might've heard the nutter talkin' 'bout dissectin' bodies."

"Light, and dark. Such heady things, priests worship. I'd prefer something more tactile. Say…death?" Xzar says, grinning ear to ear.

"Clearly, one of us was not paying enough attention to his words of wisdom." Jaheira groans, kneading her forehead.


	13. Bryce, The First Dream

**Chapter 13: Bryce, The First Dream**

Perhaps it was naïve to think that once I'd put Gorion's death, my flight, behind me, that this dream would stop plaguing me.

Lucid as I was while it was occurring, even though it was the the fourth or fifth time I was having it, at least, I could still nearly convince myself it was real. The walls of Candlekeep, the massive barred gate, the grey-brown of the brick and mortar, it was almost real. _Almost_.

But they stretched too high, not only reaching up towards the firmament, but also grasping it, like my hands, these days, on the hilts of my swords, on the string of my bow. The sky was a slurring pool of color, of reds and purples and greens, a pastiche that was, frankly, unsettling.

Seeing this place again, standing in front of it, I can't help but remember what was once my life. Phlydia always losing track of her books, Dreppin struggling to keep his cows in good health, Hull and Fuller trying to train the Watchers, keep them and their behavior in check in the face of having nothing to do most days.

There's one memory stronger than any, now. Twenty years of living in seclusion ended too suddenly, almost like it never happened at all. I ran. From Candlekeep, with Gorion. From my life, which I never knew I could escape so easily. From Gorion…from Gorion.

I see him, as I think of him, on top of the too-high precipice, merely a speck off in the distance. But I know it's him. Because, in this dream, he always appears. He jumps from the wall. I have no cause for concern, really. He doesn't fall down so much as floats, gently, almost like his body has no weight at all, like gravity doesn't even know he exists. Maybe he doesn't, not anymore.

He touches the ground in front of me. He is not the man who trained me, who listened to me complain, who read to me and told me endless stories of heroism, adventure, of the outside world and its challenges, its struggles, its rewards. This is a ghost, a pale shade, a husk who once had his wrinkles, his voice, his robes. Seeing him like this, I say the same thing I said the first time, the same thing I always say.

"I can't go back, Gorion…Father. I'd like to, really. In order to find out what happened to you, I must go on."

He nods, points behind me. I turn to follow, and behind me are two paths. Only two. As if the entire Sword Coast, the whole world, follows two roads. One is relatively smooth, square cobblestone. Easy going. The other is all dirt and twigs, hard ground and harder times lay in wait ahead.

Darkness surrounds us, like this is the entirety of existence. I must go on, I said. But now, I also must choose how to do so. The last time I did this, there was merely one path, and the other appeared as if out of thin air. What to do? This is a test, a challenge of some sort. Dreams are nothing if not that, for our unconscious mind. There's something we're trying to sort out, something we're grappling with when we dream.

Here, my mind seems to yearn for home, but it knows that I'm taking steps away. Therefore, I think, stroking my chin with a free hand, my mind wants to know the best way to proceed.

"I ran when you asked, Gorion. My whole life, you've tried to shelter me, but while also developing in me the knowledge and skills I would need to survive, when it came time. I'm not going to run. Never again."

I step out onto the dirt path. I proceed down. Nothing really seems to occur, other than the path widening and lengthening in response. The other, the cobblestone, disappears, melts away into the surrounding depths. In other words, there's no turning back.

Then, _he_ steps out onto it in front of me. The man…no, the monster, the hellspawn that ran Gorion through while I watched, in horror, in agony. That visage, those horns and that armor. There was no mistaking it. Eyes like golden fire, like the light of the sun, stare at me.

"You _must_ run! What else is there to do, when one is faced with a _god?_ " He says, bellowing deep laughter, that seems to make this reality quake around him.

I draw my swords. "Before Gorion died, he claimed he was stopping your 'villainy.' What did he mean by that, exactly?"

"The words of a coward, who can't understand what I aim to accomplish. The machinations of any different from yourself, of any who have dissimilar goals, desires. That's what people call 'villainy,' who people call 'villains.' For now, that is all you need to know."

Nothing to be gained, then. Gorion was never a coward. Even if he is a projection, a mere image created by my dormant memory, he seems to speak like he really exists, like he's aware of himself and his environs. Something about that seems wrong, somehow.

Sensing my hesitation, he draws his own steel, that massive blade that seems to thrum with power, with energy unlike any I have seen before. He advances, steadily, step by step down the narrow path. There's barely enough room to stand, let alone fight.

I see the strikes coming. Overhead. Feint left, sweep in from the right horizontally. Pivot, drawing the blade upwards while it faces the ground. Yet, I can barely block them, he delivers every blow with such intensity, with such speed. Without years of training, without conflict having been my life for several days now, I would have died to each.

He elbows my gut, and grabs my exposed neck. "You did well, for a man who had to run." He squeezes, tight, constricting my airflow. I struggle, seemingly in vain, against his grip. "You will learn your place, as do all who stand before Sarevok Anchev."

"How…how do I know your name? This is a dream. You don't exist."

"Is it?" He says, and throws me off the path, and as I fall, deep into nothingness, he chuckles, and the sound echoes off of the abyss, echoes in my mind.

When I wake, the same as always, I remember none of it. But I know, somewhere deep down, that it couldn't have been a dream, not fully, not truly. It was something else. Something I need to figure out before this is all over.


	14. Jaheira, Beregost

**Chapter 14: Jaheira, Beregost**

My first sight this morning is my husband, asleep next to me. One most welcome, I would say. The Burning Wizard is not a bad inn, by any means; but, surely, I could use the word 'quaint' and not find much disagreement. The sparse furniture, the small square footage of the rooms, even in spite of its shortcomings, it felt welcoming. A thought, perhaps, that could also fit the man sleeping beside me.

I reach out to stroke his cheek, cupping it as gently as I could. The first rays of morning light filter in, illuminating him in a pleasing way; like an angel from a plane of Good or Law, like the first budding sunflower in the new spring fields. He twitches, stirs at my touch. His hand goes to and covers my own, then he opens his eyes.

"Ah, is it m-morning already? So much to do, and y-yet…" He says, turning to me, blinking away his desire to return to bed. He leans in close, and our foreheads touch. He nuzzles his nose against mine.

"You wish to stay, just a bit longer?" I whisper, smiling.

"More than anything." He whispers back.

"Blegh! Gag me with a spoon, wizard! Listen to 'em coo!"

"They're hopelessly, _madly_ in _love!_ "

 _Really?_ What are they, outside the door? Feeling something akin to rage swelling, I stand, leaving heaven behind me.

"W-wait, Jaheira, I'm sure there's a p-per—"

A voice, another one besides theirs, stops me in my tracks.

"What are you two doing here? We're supposed to meet downstairs."

"But they're taking so _loooong!_ We ate already, we've chatted, I don't really see the harm."

"Fer once, we agree. Scary, innit?"

"Get away from their room! All of ya! Everybody! Scram!"

I stride to the door and open it. "We will be down shortly." I glance at those gathered there; Bryce, Imoen, and the Zhent pair. Everyone is present and accounted for. I wave them away with a hand.

"Childish behavior. Don't you know to respect the privacy of others?" Bryce says as they start walking away.

"Lad, I steal people's private belongings. Xzar steals their _guts_. I think we know a thing or two about what's private and what's not." Listen to him. What gives him the right to say such words?

We meet around a table.

"T-thank you for your patience—"

"Or _lack thereof_." I cut off Khalid, staring hard at the interlopers. Xzar throws his hands up in surrender, while Montaron sighs. Bryce rubs the back of his neck with a hand, and Imoen jumps right in.

"Let's, uh, table that" she says, glancing at the table and knocking it with a pair of fingers, "for now." I raise an eyebrow. Really? A pun?

Khalid starts laughing. "Oh, table that, that's good!"

"She doesn't have a leg to stand on, making jokes like that." Bryce says off-hand.

" _Humor?_ From _Bryce?_ " Xzar gapes.

"I know, shocking, right? But I am capable of it, when it's required. Used to be a lot more often, that's for sure." He replies, fingers stroking his chin.

"And immediately back to brooding. That's our Bryce!" Xzar says, slapping the table and looking for…I'm not sure what he's looking for. Looking around for something, maybe a mirror, or for someone to see the look on his face and laugh.

"So, with regards to Khalid's plan for our time in Beregost…" Imoen starts. Again, I have no choice but to be bewildered. "Imoen? What has come over you?"

She frowns, furrowing her brow. "What? I can't be all business, too?"

"Lass, yer barely out of the womb, metaphorically speakin'. Like a baby walkin' up t' his mother and askin' fer a raise on his allowance."

She lets out a _hmph_.

"Imoen? Khalid nor I have told anyone of any plan. How—"

"Oh, just overheard! Good ears and all that!" She says quickly, trying to wave it off and dismiss it. Suspicious. She and Bryce were our rearguard. The front and back of the group were definitely too far apart to 'ovehear' anything, especially how quietly we discussed it.

"Let's leave that aside for now. What is this plan of yours?" Bryce says, leaning an arm onto the table, a fist going to his cheek, eyes darting between Khalid and I.

"N-n-nothing too complex, I assure you. Merely to split into two t-teams, and do some much-needed shopping and…" he trails off, looking to Bryce's shoulder, "repairs."

Bryce's eyes follow Khalid's own, hand going to his shoulder. "I suppose it can't hurt. After all, Thunderhammer's Smithy is renowned even as far away as Candlekeep."

"I'll head with whoever's shoppin', then. I can pick us up some coin." Montaron says, thumbing his nose and looking a bit too satisfied with what he's implying.

"Great. A thief in Beregost's markets. That will draw enough attention even without…" I stop before I say it out loud.

"Other matters complicating things." Bryce says it for me, tensing his whole body, gritting out the words. "Right?"

"I-I was thinking," Khalid says a bit too loudly, trying to disperse the tension in the air, "That Bryce and I would take w-whoever is willing to the Smithy and elsewhere, if need be. M-m-meanwhile, the rest would buy rations, kindling, and so on." He says, clearing his throat at the end and looking to our party. His eyes ask for him: _Questions? Objections?_

"Do you have enough money to pay for these repairs?" Xzar asks, tilting his head. "After all, that's quite a bit of damage to his armor. Fire is scary business. I should know!" He says, trying and failing to stifle a giggle. What a scary man. Scary, in many ways.

"If not, we will aid Thunderhammer, Taerom, in his w-work for the favor. Scratch his back, and he s-should scratch ours."

"He and his family do owe the Harpers a great debt, after all. Sound thinking, Khalid." I nod.

"That's intriguing." Bryce says. "What kind of favor does a _Dwarven smith_ owe the Harpers?" He asks, scratching at a temple.

Khalid stands up. "W-why don't you ask him when we arrive? It's a g-g-great story." He says, winking at me.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, a great tale of heroism, adventure, and quite a bit of back pain, if I recall."

"I'll go with you!" Xzar says, jumping up. "Oh, we have so _much_ to learn about Dwarven anatomy, history, funeral rites and practices, culture, organs…"

Imoen raises a hand. "And I guess that means I'm going with you and Monty—"

" _Montaron."_

She glances at him. "With you and…Montaron." A pregnant pause. A very concerning pregnant pause.

I clap, as if to formally dismiss us. "Let us meet at the town's southernmost exit at sundown. A day away from bandits, wolves, and…" I look to Bryce, "other troubles, would be most welcome."

He nods. "Good luck with your tasks, everyone. And…thank you, again, for allowing me to stay with you on your way to Nashkel."

Ah, what's another dangerous man, eh? Add ye to the pile!" Montaron laughs heartily. He seems to be in an awfully good mood.

Imoen, Montaron and I should stop by Kagain's shop as well. The firstborn son of Taerom Fuiruim…it has been some time since I've seen him.

I can't help but look ahead. The Balance is disrupted up and down the Sword Coast. Silvanus, guide my friends, my husband and I on our way.

Let us not be lost in the denseness of the forest, the maze we now find ourselves in. Let us instead find a clearing, rest our weary bodies and minds. I pray for your guidance in this troubled time. I pray for so much, too much, perhaps. Let it merely be enough that we all stay safe from harm.


	15. Rasaad

**Chapter 15: Rasaad**

By the Sun and Moon, are peasant folk really so simple?

I must digress; while I appreciate my goddess' blessing, the sacred right of pilgrimage I have been given, sometimes I wonder if I have also not been cursed as well.

I am meant to demonstrate her wisdom, the duality of her worship, to any who would listen, who could allow themselves to, if not convert, at least consider her among the many others in the Pantheon.

But here in Beregost, that did not quite go as planned. Though it is only the first city I have encountered on my travels, I have learned quite a bit about life on the Sword Coast, as they deem it.

The buildings are humble, but tall and wide even still, as are the many pathways that seem to roam between them, confusing in their organization as they may be. These paths allow folk to leave quite wide berths as well.

I have taken roost, so to speak, outside the largest inn I could find. Once I learned that this was something of a traveler's haven, I was relieved; I knew the kinds of people that would come through such a place, what they were seeking, and perhaps what was seeking them as well.

My days have been simple; I lecture and read to those willing to listen, and to those who are not, I have...other methods of demonstrating the discipline I have learned in my years at the temple. My nights have been spent outdoors, always with the moon and stars, as is Her will.

At this moment, for instance, quite a crowd has gathered to watch myself and another, a young man, though most likely older than I. His eyes are filled with rage, as is his voice.

"You!" He points, vigorously. "You're one of those _adventurers_ , aren't you?!" Adventurer. A rather strange word, though one many around here use to describe those travelers in search of great magical items, of hoards of ill-gotten loot. Not much better than bandits, though any that heard me say as such would surely cry out in indignation.

I bow before him. "I am a humble servant of Selûne, nothing more or less. What is your grievance -"

"My _grievance_ , he says!" He yells, huffs, as one in the crowd steps up to him.

"Look, you can't take this out on everyone -"

"The hells I can't! Once this bald fool is done here, he's gonna run off to the next town, and the next, just like all those other adventuring types! Ain't that right, Baldie?"

I shake my head, eyes closed. Simple, to a fault. "Again, I must ask; what do you have against adventurers? Surely they have done nothing to harm you, personally."

"My brother, that's what! He ran off, saying some nonsense about how _famous_ he was gonna be, about how all damn Sword Coast would know his name! And what happened to him?" He throws his hands up, paces a bit back and forth, and then, "He _died_ , that's what! Damn adventurers only bring trouble to these parts, I tell ya!"

The crowd surrounding us only seemed to grow in size; locals must know this story, and perhaps sympathize with the young man's plight. It seems it was up to me to calm him, to allow him to process this great loss. I could only imagine the pain he must be experiencing.

"It is not trouble they bring, but hope." I say.

He just stares me down, brow creased, eyes squinting.

"For there is more to life than the four walls that surround you. There is a world out there to experience, truly; day and night, hardship and good tidings, suffering and joy, the Sun and Moon. Selûne's light can shine upon us all, and these adventurers cannot be the source of your grief. You must forgive your brother, and, most importantly..." I pause, close my eyes, nod, and then finish, "you must forgive yourself."

He crosses his arms, looks away. The crowd is silent as well. He returns his gaze to me. "So, Selûne is some kind of...god or goddess, right? What's that about her light?"

I smile, and the crowd seems to disperse, perhaps expecting some kind of trouble. Among them, a few more step forth; a half-orc and two other men, one most likely an elf or half-elf.

"Greetings, all. The more that bathe in Selûne's wisdom, the better." I bow to the newcomers.

"I've read that her monks are well trained in the martial arts." The half-orc says, stepping up to me. "Any credit to that bit of hearsay?"

The young man from earlier takes a step back, eyes me warily. I turn to this brash newcomer; does he truly wish to test me?

"Bryce, p-p-please, he is merely-"

"Ah, let him have his _fun_ , Khalid! Not every day you get to fight a _monk_ , right? What a pleasure, truly!"

"We do not have to fight, young man."

"Bryce, of Candlekeep." He says, stretching, cracking knuckles, removing parts of his armor. "Trust me, we really do. I've been through some hardship of my own these past few days, and nothing gets that out of your system like a good bit of training."

"It is not right. I have no cause to -"

"How about self-defense?!" He shouts, lunging at me with speed not unlike a diving hawk.

The young man and Bryce's two comrades each break away, and I am forced to dodge backwards, a back-flip into a handspring that leaves me on my feet, in a defensive posture, weight on my back foot.

"Looks like it's true." Bryce says, smirking, before he crouches into a fighting stance himself.

"Why do you do this? Can we not merely discuss whatever your troubles are?"

"He's r-right, Bryce! Stop this!" the one called Khalid shouts.

"It's not something I can explain with words. I _have_ to fight, I have to become more than I am. So that when I..." his hand balls up into a tight fist. "So that I can be ready. When the time comes. Now...enough talking!"

He seems to only understand conflict, struggle. In order to become 'more than I am,' he wishes to gain experience, and that I could see as a noble endeavor. But, to openly challenge a stranger, and one who wishes you no harm...? Where is the experience in that? What does he hope to accomplish?

The ferocity of his attacks helped me to understand. Swift, straight punches and kicks, which I could block or avoid. An experienced hand, but also an unrefined one. There is much this young man knows, and also much he does not understand. So much he could _learn_ , if only he could just _listen_...

I trip him as he leaves an ankle exposed. Placing a foot onto his chest, I look down at him.

"Perhaps our paths will cross again. But if you so openly confront everyone you meet, you will face much worse than I. Do you understand?"

I remove my foot, and he quickly stands.

"Loud and clear." He replies, attempting to scuff dirt off of his person. He sighs. "Khalid, you were right, that was...embarrassing." He looks from his companions to me. "But, I have something to ask you, if you don't mind."

I nod, prodding him to continue. What could he want from me?

"You're a missionary, correct? Fated to wander the roads, preaching and...otherwise educating others?"

"Of a sort, yes. Why do you ask?" I cup my chin with my thumb and forefinger, tilting my head slightly.

"Would you mind traveling with us, if only for a short while? My friend Khalid here and his wife are Harpers," he gestures to Khalid, who looks a bit concerned, if not surprised at the words, "and our group is heading towards Nashkel."

"What awaits you there? Perhaps these mines producing the plagued iron I have heard so much of?"

This time, it's their third companion, the tall man in the green robe, who answers me.

"Well, that's what awaits _them_ , anyway! For Monty and I, it's who knows what!" He throws his head back, laughing.

I raise a brow.

"Xzar and Montaron have their...issues, but the rest of us are sound, reliable."

"If a bit cocksure," I say, smiling.

Bryce opens his mouth, then closes it. Khalid responds in his stead.

"The i-i-invitation is sudden, but an extra p-pair of hands would be fine, I'm sure."

I am left only to rub my chin with a thumb and think. A strange group, to be certain. Unusual in both thought and action. Surely not willing to convert to worship of Selûne. Yet, something about them, abut this young man named Bryce, is intriguing. Where will they go after Nashkel? Something tells me I'm about to accept something...more like, I'm about to be swept up into something.

I turn to the young man from before.

"I will return to Beregost. In the meantime, I expect you to welcome adventurers with open arms, and to consider the life your brother would want you to live."

He rubs his forehead.

"Open arms I'm not sure about, but I can think about my brother, sure. What he would want for me. Thank you, I guess." He says, walking away without waiting for a reply.

"We've st-st-still got to go to Thunderhammer's, Bryce." Khalid prods.

"True enough. Let's be off then. Welcome aboard, Mr. Missionary." He says, turning to me with a smirk.

"Please, I am called Rasaad. Rasaad Yn-Bashir." I bow, introducing myself to my new...well, let's just call them associates for now.

Selûne light my way. While the peasant folk may have been simple, something tells me this bunch will be...slightly more complex.


	16. Montaron, Beregost Market

**Chapter 16: Montaron**

Beregost may not be much compared t' Luskan, but there's just something 'bout merchant stalls, 'bout shoppers with pouches full o' coin...just feels like home. Probably not a great quality, aye, but one I can still be proud of.

Take the whole cutpurse act, for example. It's a fine art, really, and since I'm feelin' generous, I'll give ye a few tricks o' the trade.

First, ye gotta scope out yer area. See who's just comin' through, who's gonna be there a while. Marks, we'll call 'em. Folk with deep pouches o' coin who might not notice if they're gone. Older folk, rich ones with no real sense of attachment to money, possibly even little tykes with their allowance. I'd never take from children, personally, but I've got standards; not every cutpurse be the same.

Next, once ye've got a lay of the land, then you find the one. The target. The poor sod who don't even _know_ that trouble's comin' their way. Could be anyone, and so no one thinks it's gonna be them. A real win-win for you, the criminal.

So, ye've got the layout memorized, ye know who's who and who's just not, and ye've found yer target. Now, the most important part; _the plan_. What do they got on 'em? How are ye gonna get it? Do ye have a safe, efficient escape route? What will ye do if ye get caught? The questions pile up, and if ye can answer 'em all, ye've got a solid foundation.

I've got me eyes on a woman, and no, it ain't Jaheira or Imoen. Imagine how many Hells of torment I'd have to go through on that account. But a woman, nonetheless. A little blonde twig, wearin' robes and a staff strung 'cross her back. Probably some kind o' mage. Ye might be thinkin'; what kind o' moron tries to steal from a _mage?_ Nine times out o' ten, I'd agree with ye on that.

But this time, me eyes don't deceive me; she's been gabbin' and gabbin' with everybody. Shopekeepers, peasants passin' by, everybody with two ears and nothin' better to do. The word to use here is _distracted_. Tain't nobody easer to rob than someone who won't see it comin', and wouldn't even think of it.

So I wait, 'round a nearby corner, little alley. Timin' it just right, I come 'round the corner at the same time she does. Not even lookin' at the ground or at her periphery. Stickin' close, I reach me hand out, gently tug on the purse at her hip, and bring it back to me. It happens quick, just a bit o' sleight o' hand.

'Afore she knows what happened, I'm on the other side, tuckin' the pouch on me person somewhere. Even if she knew t' look for it, where would she look? I blend in t' a taller crowd. It could have been anyone, and who knows where we're all goin'. Sometimes, I feel bad for the sods I steal from. Mentally, I can shake it off. I'll never see 'er again anyway, so what's the real harm? In these times, it's ye or the other guy, and I'd rather it be me.

This time, unfortunately, it might've come back t' bite me in the arse.

I get a sinkin' feelin', right in the pit o' me stomach. When yer gut's tellin' you it's bad, it's gotta be at least not good. Like whenever I know Xzar be up to somethin'. Speakin' o' which, I hope he ain't causin' too much trouble fer...

Before the thought finishes, there's somethin' happenin' in front of me.

The blonde twig. Duckin' back 'round the alley-corner, I watch 'er carefully. She leaves town, goes t' a nearby field. Big, open...good place for an ambush, I reckon.

I shouldn't 'ave thunk it. Just as I did, almost in response, a few portals open, surroundin' 'er. I shake me head. Why do I 'ave to go and think it...?

Out o' the portals, a few wizards appear. Not jest any wizards mind you: men wearin' robes dark and crimson, embroidered to the Hells an' back. Tch. The Red Wizards of Thay. Nasty bunch, and that means somethin', comin' from me. Selfish, egotistical pricks...and that's also sayin' somethin', considerin' all wizards are usually that way, the ones I've met anyway.

Jest as they appear, somethin' like a wall shimmers 'afore them. Damn, looks like some kind o' magical protection. Whatever's goin' on 'hind that, they didn't want anyone t' see.

I got a bad feelin'. A real bad feelin'. A few days ago, I would've just left it be, I woulda done it without question. Cursin' somethin' fierce, I head back into the market. There's a couple o' girls who'd want to know this was happenin', who could do somethin' about it.

I see them in front o' some stall. Shoppin', just as they were tasked. No time t' worry about that now.

"Ladies. How goes the shoppin'?" I ask, casually.

"I had no idea we imported so much from Tethyr! I mean, _look_ at this necklace!" She exclaims, pointin' to yer average ruby necklace. Well, t' rubies _are_ supposed to be brighter there, I hear...but who's got time fer rubies?

"There's a young girl in danger, think she might need our help." I say, and the two quickly turn their attention to me.

" _Our_ help? Plural?" Jaheira asks, hand subconsciously drawing closer to her scabbard.

"What makes you think she's in trouble?" Imoen also asks, steppin' out ahead of me and lookin' around. "And...where is this trouble happening?" She cups her forehad, squintin'.

"Lemme explain _after_ we help. She's outside of town, behind a magic...barrier."

"A magic barrier? This sounds very serious, Montaron."

"Well, that's why I came to ye both."

"No time to lose then! What kind of cruel bystanders would we be if we _didn't_ help to offer anyone who needed it!?" Imoen nods t' herself, sprintin' off first.

"Wait, Imoen!" Jaheria shouts, running after her. "Silvanus take me Imoen, _wait!"_

Maybe...maybe this wasn't such a good idea, I think, chasin' after them.

The three o' us arrive quick, quick enough that nothin' seems to have changed.

"Something is off around here..." Jaheria thinks aloud. "Nature has been disturbed."

"Mhm. Monty's right, there's some kind of weird magical energy."

Jaheira and I look at the lass.

"...Probably. I mean, a magic barrier, right? That's gotta be some kinda magical...disturbance. Right?"

"And would you also happen to not know anything else relevant, Imoen? Perhaps...how we get through?" Jaheria asks tersely, crossin' her arms and givin' the lass the third degree.

"It's rigged, magically speaking. We step on one wrong blade of grass, and we're as good as done." Imoen purses her lips, then licks a finger and holds it up.

"Imoen? What..."

I shush Jaheira. Whatever she's doin', it's gotta be figurin' out where we go or what we do next.

We hear her chant, some kinda...spell?

" _Incertas...cultur...imperium!"_

As the barrier dissipates, Jaheria asks, "Imoen...how long have you been looking in that mage's spellbook?"

"Ah, only a few...hours...a night." She tries to dismiss it, but as she scrunches up her nose and looks away, probably realizes how much she's in for later.

With the barrier gone, our attention turned to the blonde twig, still surrounded by the Thayans.

"It seems we have some uninvited guests. Friends of yours, Neera?" One pulls down his hood. Bald, as are most Thayans. Perfectly trimmed goatee and mustache. A thick, but somehow still sharp and pointy face, Arrogance out of every pore. Yep, that's a Red Wizard alright.

"Hey, YOU! Yes, you, there! You've gotta help me!" The blonde twig, apparently named Neera, shouts, animated as I've ever seen a lass.

"What seems to be the problem?" Jaheira prompts rather directly.

"The PROBLEM is that these guys are AFTER ME! DUH! Earth to new girls and guy!"

"This young woman, unfortunately, is a bit of a troublemaker. You see, Thay is purely interested in academics; the untapped potential of magic..." Before the Thayan can pontificate any further -

"That you USE people to get at! SLAVES! TORTURE! That's not what I'd call pure!"

"Please, allow me to continue." A quiet, but forceful hand. "As I was saying, there are those amongst the magical community who try to stop us. Renegade wizards, sorcerors and sorceresses, like this one here. All we require is compensation; either their money, or their time."

"Yeah, that's the sales pitch alright. But what they're SELLING is death for those involved, or at best a lifetime of servitude! Yeah, a bit of money or time, those are the honeyed words, and research, that's what they sell you on. But what did I get? Almost EATEN BY GOBLINS! Barely escaped with my life! Please, you gotta -"

" _Enough_." The wizard's tone turn's icy.

"You said you would take either money or her time, correct? How much would you need?" Jaheira reaches for her coin.

"She would've given us plenty, but of course, as soon as we ask, she's lost it somewhere. Woe be unto her luck! Or, more likely...a careful ruse."

Ain't no ruse. I know that fer a fact.

"I HAD your damn money! Some IDIOT stole it! Ooooh, when I find that guy..." she shakes, mashing her hands together. Lesson learned: don't steal from mages. Elsewise they end up in big trouble.

"How much, exactly?" Jaheria, reacing carefully to her stowed sling, asks. She's got a plan.

"Oh I dunno now, a few hundred gold? A LOT for one person, by the way. Sheesh, you know how many magic shows and circus performances I went to?"

"Truly, you _forgot_ how much you owe? Tsk, tsk, a grave error. What if what you brought wasn't enough? That would be...unfortunate. Even now, I have to wonder if you were ever going to bring it at all." His hand crackles with magic energy, as his companions remove their hoods.

Neera eyes his hand. "And I have to wonder if you'd ever take it. Dirty play, old man." She draws her staff.

"Not as dirty as ours," I say, tossin' a dagger out of its hidin' place and into one poor lad's neck. One mage down, two to go.

Jaheria flicks her sling, the bullet strikin' another before he could react.

Imoen's arrow catches the leader in the leg, forcin' him down to the ground. Neera's staff thwackin' across his head, he goes down as well.

"Not much for contingency on their plan not working, huh?" Imoen says, retrievin' her arrow.

"Thank you! THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!" Neera squeals, rushing into Jaheira for a full bear hug.

"It-It's quite alright," Jaheira says, coughin' as Neera releases her. "We just did what anyone would have," she clears her throat. "So, these Thayans were after you?"

"Yeah. Like they said, renegade sorceress on the run and all that. No big deal really, just ALMOST DIED!"

"But, at one point, you were helping their...research? On something in particular?" Now all of us are at full attention. She's got a good point. What was the twig involved in, anyway?

Neera gets a certain twinkle in her eye. Oh, I know where this is goin'.

"I'll tell you. But on one condition." She holds up a finger. Then, places her palms together. "PLEASE LET ME GO WITH YOU!"

"Travel with us, you mean?" Jaheria asks, with her voice and brow both raised high. Then, she laughs, and turns to Imoen. "She seems excitable enough, no?"

"Plus, we saved her tuckus! It sounds like she doesn't really have anywhere to go, or any money, either. I think it'll be fun!"

"Yay! Me too!" She shouts, and she and Imoen high-five.

On one hand, I feel good about savin' her life. On the other...well, just look at 'er. Erratic, sort of like Xzar, and innocent, in a way, mostly like Imoen. That's what I'd call a dangerous combination.


	17. Xzar, The Red Cliffs

**Chapter 17: Xzar  
**

Today promises its ups and downs. Positives, like _new friends!_ Well, only by circumstance, as some of the group has been quick to point out. But, friends are friends, right? Companions, maybe? I just _don't want to be alone!_ Did I think that out loud? Oh my.

Another positive: these beautiful cliffs! So...red, as their name implies, the Red Cliffs. Boy, whoever named these places really needs to step up their game. I'd go with something like... _Blood Cliffs._ Doesn't that just sound more... _intense? Exciting?_ I thought of a great question though, by the way.

"What are we doing here, again?" I pipe up from my humble position in the back of our marching order, alongside our new mage friend Neera. She seems fun, if a bit...well, you know, eccentric.

"The BOUNTY! DUH!" She says, peppering her words with that enthusiasm of hers. Sometimes it's just loudness, I'm sure. Maybe she doesn't even realize how she sounds?

"Five thousand gold ain't a bad price, methinks." Monty adds. Of course, all he cares about is the _money._

"Any price would be worth stopping the dead from rising out of the ground; such abominations of nature cannot be allowed to stand."

"Oh d-definitely, love. But, after Bryce's e-e-expenses..."

"So it's my fault, then? Armor isn't cheap, especially these days. Like it or not, we need that coin." He puts a fist up, signaling us to halt. By the way...aren't Khalid and Jaheira the Harpers? Why is he leading, again? Hmm, another good question I'll have to stow for later use.

"What is it, big guy?" Imoen asks, surveying the area surrounding us.

"Bones rattling, flesh sliding off of flesh. A horde of them...undead. Gods, the _smell_..."

Rasaad, our new monk friend, looks bewildered. "The sound, I could understand you hearing. But you can _smell_ rotting flesh from here? There cannot possibly-"

"Definitely something magic around here. Maybe this Bassilus guy is using a curse or spell to raise them?" Neera says, spinning her staff while idle.

"The crier cl-claimed that he was a cleric. It should be something d-d-divine at work here."

"Not much divine about raising corpses if you ask me. People die for a purpose, for a reason. To remove that from them disgraces their memory." Bryce says, crouching low. "We're close. Keep it tight, and keep it quiet."

Oooh, a _stealth_ mission! Exciting! Just imagine...one wrong step, and we could _die!_ Eaten by ghouls! Forced to become undead _thralls_ of a mad cleric!

Rasaad moves closer to me as we quietly stalk ahead as a group.

"Can he really smell, hear and such from this distance? It seems impossible."

I shrug. "The world is _filled_ with dangerous, exciting magic. Who's to say that a half-orc can't have _exquisite_ senses? Why, if only _I_ could smell the flesh of every corpse I used for research...ah, heavenly!"

He recoils in reponse. "I...will ask someone else," he says, turning away. His loss, I suppose.

After some time sneaking, which, by the way, _killer_ on the guy wearing the robe. Just look at these tears! Damnable twigs and bugs!

Anyway, we arrive at a clearing, with some trees and shrubs we can use for cover.

We each find a tree to duck behind or something similar, and look on as a group.

Bassilus, presumably, is there with, as suspected, quite a large group of skeletons and zombies. _Delightful!_ Just look at some of those fractures, those scars! Bassilus himself looks to be going soon; his posture is slumped, his armor and shield look like they weigh heavily on him.

Yet, he's laughing.

"Go on, Thurm, tell the story! You tell it best!"

A nearby zombie groans in response. Sounds like me getting up on a bad morning. _Urrrgh._ Or Monty when I make my usual _fantastic_ puns.

"Please? Not everyone's heard it. Well, if you won't, then I will! It all started in Zhentil Keep, you see. Oh it was such an adventure! Or, wait, was it somewhere else..." He rubs a thumb and forefinger on his forehead. "It's all kind of blurring together."

"He appears to be losing his mind." Jaheria whispers, looking around at us as we reconvene.

"Should be a fairly easy kill then, wouldn't ye say?" Monty fires back.

"I feel bad for him, ya know? I mean, he just wants friends, a family." Oh Imoen, that hope, that _optimism!_ Killing hasn't dampened her spirits yet, I see.

"Maybe we can convince him that he's going crazy, turn himself in?" Neera suggests.

"B-but that still leaves the undead." Khalid, ever the pragmatist.

"Perhaps we can break whatever is tying them to this place. Send them back where they belong." Bryce says.

All this talking, and planning...sometimes it really just gets on my nerves. I know exactly what to do!

I stand up and make my way out into the clearing.

Everyone looks somewhere between shocked, furious, and surprised as Bassilus addresses me.

"How _dare_ you interrupt a family gathering!? Wait..." his hand goes to, covers his mouth. "It...it cannot be. Is that you, father?"

I hear Monty barely suppress laughter behind me.

"Gods help us all...he's not really...?" Rasaad's concern is soon dashed.

"No, just another delusion, I'm sure. This may be our best bet. Everyone fan out and get ready if...when, this goes awry," Bryce says, and the group does just that.

"Ah, _son_ , 'tis so good to see you! I've _missed_ you so!" A bit of acting, and we'll see just how _awry_ this goes. That damn skeptic, Bryce, no faith in me? In _Xzar?!_

"Father! Thank Cyric! Where did you go after Zhentil Keep!?"

"I should ask _you_ the same thing. I couldn't _stand_ to be separated from you and your mother!"

"Well..." he looks down and away, and back to a skeleton to his left. Its mouth vaguely rattles. Then, he returns his gaze to me. "Wait, mother just said that you were there...with her."

"At Zhentil? Of course I was! It was after that dreadful attack that we separated, no?"

Everyone gets weapons or spells ready. Relax, relax! I have this _covered._

Bassilus' eyes go wide, as if he just remembered something important. Something he never should've forgotten. "No, it was _me_ who left, who _ran_ from you...from my _family_."

He paces around, head darting between his various undead minions.

"Wh-what are these _things_...? Did I...?"

"Summon them, to try and regain some semblance of your life back?" I say, tilting my head, smiling deviously. "Probably. After all, if your whole family was massacred, there's no telling _what_ you'd do."

He turns to me, hand gripping his holy symbol tightly. "Massacred?"

A skeleton collapses into a pile of bones.

"That's right, and what did you do instead of help them?" You _ran._ "

A zombie moans as its arms, then legs fall off its body, its head sinking into a pile of gooey limbs and organs.

"And, to make up for this _tragedy,_ you devoted your life to _death_ , to _suffering._ "

Another skeleton dissolves into dust.

"What did it get you? A crazed mind? A body count and a bounty? You have to ask yourself...in the end, was it really _worth it,_ son?"

He staggers backwards, stammering. "No...no, I-I didn't, I didn't mean to..."

The rest of the horde collapses, leaving a mess of bones and flesh. Formerly a family, and now...just another tragic story.

"Oh, you _did._ Now, you're going to find _peace_ , Bassilus."

"Peace?" He sounds hopeful. Hope that his family never had. Hope...that I will _crush._

"Eternal peace, to be precise." I lift a fist, and with a last breath, Bassilus collapses, skin grey as the zombies he used against the rest of the world. "Goodbye, son. May you find _eternal_ rest, somewhere else."

"By all the Nine Hells, Xzar, what was _that!?_ " Bryce comes charging out of his hiding place, looking mad like I've never seen from him. The rest of the group follows slowly.

I respond casually. "Just a bit of well-improvised distraction while I prepared a life-draining spell."

"You made that young man see what he'd done, and then you _killed him!_ "

"Bryce, I think Xzar was in the right here, unfortunately." Imoen comes up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Ye saw how he acted. Whether he knew what was going on or not, he was a crazy bugger, had to be put down." Montaron says, fishing the holy symbol from his corpse.

"If only he could've seen the light earlier, this might have been prevented." Rasaad says, bowing to the body.

"Still though, must've been some pretty strong faith in Cyric. This was a lot of bodies to pull up," Neera says, taking a closer look at the piles of dead.

"Faith is what keeps our minds _sane_. What happened to this man and his family to make his grip on reality so...?" Jaheira says, almost mournfully. Jaheira, you didn't really know the guy. What's with the eulogy?

"A-a-apparently they were massacred. That would b-be enough to..." Khalid cuts himself off, looking to Bryce.

"That would be enough to make anyone go a little crazy, is that right?" He finishes Khalid's thought, hands moving to his hips. "We need to _prevent_ things like this from happening to anyone else. Money or not," he says, shaking his head, "this man didn't deserve a bounty, didn't deserve what happened to him."

I do feel bad for Bassilus, but mostly I wonder who I was really talking to today. Positives: new friends, lots of money, and getting to see the Red Cliffs. Negatives: too many echoes here to my liking. Echoes of a past I'd really rather... _forget. Just like they forgot me..._


	18. Neera, The Red Cliffs

**Chapter 18: Neera**

"Heeeey Imoen. Pssst!" Admittedly, it was more shout-whisper than I was going for. I CAN be stealthy, ya know. Sure, the bright blonde hair and the bubble-bath personality miiiight distract you, but that's the secret. Nobody expects much from the cute little blonde mage.

"Neera, just look at how far apart we are." She gestures, indicating that there's really not too much distance. Marching is marching, I guess. "Why are you…uh, trying to whisper anyway? What if – "

I clear my throat, lowering my voice to a deep, masculine baritone. Puffing out my chest, I start with "What if the enemy snuck up on you while you were goofing around? What if your precious comrade, your lifelong companion, couldn't hear you!?"

Imoen starts snickering. "Oh man, that's pretty good."

"I know, right? That's just how he sounds!"

"Well, the 'lifelong companion' bit was maybe a bit much." She muses, nodding to herself.

"It's true, though, isn't it? You guys have known each other, like, FOREVER." I turn to her, spreading my arms out wide as I say it. I'm pretty sure they mentioned that. They're both from Candlekeep, aren't they?

"Forever, huh." Imoen scratches through her hair. "I guess so. I mean, at least since we were kids, anway."

"See? I've got QUESTIONS, Imoen! Important questions!"

"Such as…?" Now she's curious. Oho, fell right into my devious trap. What can I say? You never expect it.

I lean my head over to look at him, up front as usual. Back high, straight, and…well, massive. Plate armor gleaming in the sun. Hands carefully measured at his sides, ready to draw steel in the blink of an eye. Boy, he sure looks like he's been doing this longer than he has.

"Has he always been so…hmm." I pause, to try and think of the right word. "Intense? No, that's not it."

"That's pretty accurate, though." Imoen adds, helpfully. "He's a very intense guy, very serious. Kind of gives off a certain aura, ya know?"

I nod vigorously. "Yeah, like 'don't even think about it!' Something like that, anyway."

Imoen smiles, before puffing out her own chest, putting her hands on her hips, and taking a deep breath. "Imoen! What's that you're doing back there!?" Her voice sounds so very much NOT like his. "If I find out that our rearguard is doing anything that would put us in danger, I swear I'll –" I'm laughing, but I think she's being a SMIDGE too loud…

"I'll what?" Comes a voice from the front of the group.

Everyone stops at that. In a word, busted. Very, very busted.

The front four turn to face us in the back. Khalid and Jaheira look bemused. Montaron, annoyed as he seems to be at everything. Xzar is grinning like a madman. Not too surprising. Boy, he really gives me the heebie jeebies.

"Ah the _innocence!_ The _purity_ of friendship! It brings _tears_ to my eyes!" I rub my forehead as Xzar just starts going on. Oh brother.

"Would ye give it a rest? Why in all the Hells are we _stoppin'_ for this shite?" Montaron crudely makes a valid point, if you look deep down.

"Go on, Imoen. I'm curious to hear the end of that sentence." Bryce says, walking closer to us, looking about as relaxed as I've seen him, which is still not very relaxed, mind you. Kind of a coiled spring, that one.

Imoen flushes slightly, looking away and frantically waving her hands. "N-no, that's okay, we were just, um – "

"Goofing around?" He finishes, with a wry smirk. "I don't mind you doing that, of course; it's a long way back to Beregost, we need to do _something_ to kill the time." A shockingly reasonable response.

"Wow. You really DO care, fearless leader." It comes out a LOT more sarcastic than I intended. Like, embarrassingly so.

"You have something to say to Bryce, Neera?" Rasaad! Wow, he really sneaks up on you. He's in Monk Mode right now, looking very stern.

I shrug. "He's just very quiet most of the time. I never really know what he's thinking."

"What about when he confronted Xzar regarding Bassilius? That was just a short while ago." Jaheria offers the one time I've seen him show any REAL emotion as an example.

"But like, even when we're making camp and stuff, I dunno." Now I'm sort of at a loss. I think I may have derailed us from our previous derailing.

Bryce just looks at me, a bit concerned, mind you, but would it KILL him to speak up in his own defense?

"C-can we discuss our feelings _after_ we've g-g-gotten our reward?" Khalid says, moving into the middle of our impromptu gathering.

"He's right, fer once. Show on the road!" Montaron starts off without us.

But something stops him, and draws the rest of our attention towards a nearby cliff.

"By the ba-ba-ba-gods, somebody _HELP ME!"_

It was a human voice, but also, unmistakably, the clucking of a chicken.

"I didn't just hear that." I think out loud.

Khalid dashes towards the sound, and the rest of us follow.

There, we see a sight that sears into my memory, into a place I don't think it'll ever leave.

A wolf was chasing after a chicken, both of them running along the cliff's lip. Just below them was quite a drop. But it was the CHICKEN that really caught my eye. I've NEVER seen a chicken run that fast. Look at its stubby little talons. It's almost like -

It clucks and squawks. "Please! Anybody!" SQUAWK. Oh Gods. That thing is talking.

The wolf snarls as it chases down its prey.

Khalid, having arrived first, sprints between the two as the chicken barely makes enough room.

This isn't happening, right? We're going out of our way…to save a chicken? A TALKING chicken?

The wolf jumps at Khalid, sword and shield at the ready. Catching the wolf on the surface of it, he drops down to one knee from the weight. Rasaad, reacting next, runs around the side of us. So fast!

Khalid pushes the wolf off his shield, and both return to neutral, so to speak. Before the wolf can make its next move, Rasaad jumps, giving the wolf a solid kick to the midsection. It stumbles a few steps, and Khalid follows up, bashing it with his shield, pushing it over the cliff's edge.

It lets out a long, loud whine, somewhere between a yip and a howl, as it falls. Then, a small thud.

Khalid turns to Rasaad, nodding. "I-impressive."

Rasaad bows in return. "You as well. You have quite the arm strength, I see." He smiles, nodding back.

I'm left to stare at the chicken. White feathers, brownish-yellow talons, red…gobbly thing. Yep, that's a chicken. I crouch down, looking at it intensely. Come on, say something!

"Thank you, thank you!" It clucks, darting its head out and back as it…speaks. Seriously, it's talking. A talking chicken.

I lose it. At first, I try to hold in my laughter. But it just sort of spills out, uncontrollably, like water over a full pail.

"It's…it's…talking!" I say, gasping in between bouts of laughing. "A talking chicken!"

Everyone, chicken included, just sort of pauses to let that sink in.

"Neera, come on." Imoen pats me, then directs me away from the rest of the group.

"But it's TALKING, Imoen! Ha!"

"Yeah, it sure is funny. Come on, come on."

After a few minutes, the two of us return. Man, haven't had a good laugh like that in a while.

Seeing the chicken again, I almost start back up. I manage to keep it held in. No promises once we're done though.

The group is in the middle of discussing something with it.

"…High Hedge, is that far from here?" Bryce says, turning away from the chicken and looking north.

"It is not far, but, I would caution, it is a rather infamous forest. Nature stirs there, they say, in unpredictable ways." Jaheira says, looking wary even describing it.

"He won't be looking for me! He probably thinks I'm dead!" The chicken squawks.

"Of all the…ye can't be serious with this, can ye?" Montaron says, rather peeved. "'Tis a _chicken_! _What_ can we possibly gain!?"

" _Experience_ , Monty! After all, _you've_ never seen a talking chicken, have you? Maybe his _master_ will have some _magical items…_ "

"Hmm, magical items, ye say." Montaron mulls it over. It can't be that easy to persuade him, can it?

"Alright, as long as we don't take too much time." He concludes. Of course.

"So what's the scoop, guys?" I think I have the gist, but I better ask just to make sure. Easy to jump into something unprepared and regret it later. TRUST me on that.

"We're heading north, into the forest of High Hedge. Melicamp here," Bryce explains, gesturing to the chicken, "wishes to return to his master, Thalantyr, supposedly a powerful wizard who lives deep within the forest."

"Sounds like risky business to me," I say, looking to Jaheira. If Mrs. Balance and Nature doesn't like it, I don't either. "Are we getting some kind of reward for helping?"

"You mean a reward beyond ensuring that he might return to normal?" Bryce challenges me. Great, I knew my comment was gonna bite me in the butt. "Or would you rather just keep goofing around until something else stops you?"

"Hey, back off!" Imoen, surprisingly, is the one who comes to my defense. "It's a valid question. We don't have any kinda guarantee this Thalantyr guy is worth the trip."

"Oh, trust me," Melicamp clucks, "he would make it worth your while."

"The thing is, wee chicken, we already _have_ a bounty in hand." Montaron says, patting the pouch where Bassilius's holy symbol is concealed.

"Ah, but the favor that he and Melicamp would owe us could be equal or greater to the material reward, yes?" Rasaad chimes in. "I would like to see the home of such a powerful magic user, and this High Hedge forest. It all sounds rather interesting."

"If by _interesting,_ you mean potentially deadly?" Xzar giggles at the prospect. Can we just cut him loose already?

"Perhaps we could sp-split into two teams of four. One to go with the ch-chi-chicken, and one to return to Beregost."

"A compelling suggestion," Bryce says, crossing his arms and tilting his head slightly before continuing. "How would you do so?"

"W-well, Jaheira and I being together is a given." He looks to his wife, who looks unconvinced. "S-s-so, she and I, along with Rasaad and Neera, could g-go to High Hedge, and the rest to Beregost, where we would m-meet after our business is con-con-concluded."

"Splitting up sounds hasty, Khalid." Jaheira objects. "I cannot condone it, not without more information about what kind of defenses Thalantyr has no doubt set up in High Hedge, nor without knowing what other dangers may wait in the forest itself."

"So we're stuck pigs, huh?" I say, after a short silence as the group considers what to do.

"Um, anyone seen Melicamp?" Imoen looks around, and the rest of us hastily do the same.

"Gods preserve, did we just lose a chicken?" Bryce says, sighing.

After hearing him say that, I start laughing again.

Bryce and Khalid find Melicamp's footprints, deep and jagged talon marks in the ground that lead north.

"One way or another, it looks like we're going after him." Bryce says, with a finality and certainty that I don't really like.

"Why, ye nutter?" Montaron immediately says.

"Because it's the right thing to do." Bryce answers rather simply, and starts following the trail.

"I am cu-curious if he'll be able to return to human fo-form," Khalid says with a sheepish smile, following Bryce.

"As you said, Neera, this is quite the risk, but if Bryce wishes to go, we must see it through." Jaheira, shaking her head, follows after.

The rest of us, each with our own objections, questions, and thoughts, follow along as well.

Into a scary magical forest with who knows what kind of deadly, unspeakable evil.

For a chicken.


	19. Jaheira, High Hedge Forest

**Chapter 19: Jaheira**

High Hedge is a place of many mysteries, ones even that elude the great druids of the Sword Coast's many circles.

This, I would point out, is due in large part to the man in the center of it all, so to speak, Thalantyr. He is a mage as powerful as he is seemingly uncaring about life in general, his own or other's. Surely, that mask of arrogance he wears hides something like a heart, a soul, underneath, but he has never shown it to me, or to anyone else for that matter.

Now, however, the only mask I must concern myself with is my own; I described High Hedge to disguise a certain fact about it that only myself and Khalid know. Benign, perhaps, in nature and in full truth, but an important one that should not be revealed unless necessary.

My thoughts on this matter are distracted, as many of my thoughts are these days, by a question Bryce asks as we sit beside one another.

"How did you and Khalid meet?"

Terse, direct, the slightest hint of a frustration, of a lack of knowing, that he has to ask at all, that this information was not volunteered. In other words, a simple question made more complex by the way it was asked.

I turn my attention from him to Khalid, helping Imoen practice her nascent archery. But something...is wrong.

"I just can't do it!"

She throws down her shortbow, screaming into the empty air. Bryce stands quickly, seemingly discarding his question as easily as Imoen's anger allowed her to discard her weapon.

"Ch-child, please -"

"Would you STOP calling me that!?"

Khalid shrinks back slightly, ever so carefully.

"I am NOT a gods-damned CHILD!"

The last word is shouted even louder, and now all of us have our attention turned towards what appears to be a small tantrum.

Khalid blinks rapidly, considering how, if at all, to reply.

"Lass, ye be revealin' t' opposite now." Montaron answers for him, rather like he would.

She turns to him, fuming. He does not relent.

Shrugging, he continues. "Ye say ye be not, but the way ye act tells t' truth. 'Tis rather like a babe cryin' for their mother."

Bryce moves to the pair. "Imoen, what's going on?"

She sighs, running a hand back and forth through her hair.

"Well, Khalid's trying to help me. I can't seem to shoot straight anymore. Every time I pull back the string, it's like..." she looks down, away, and then back to him, "it's like I can see her still. Her face. Then my hands..." she balls them up, tightly, watching them. "They just start shaking."

He puts a hand onto her shoulder, but says nothing. And so we return to that fateful day, not long ago, when a young girl was forced to confront the realities of this world, of life as an adventurer.

Rasaad, meditating on the ground nearby, motions to her. "Come, join me, Imoen. Walk in Selune's light, bathe in it."

She is taken aback, but looking to Bryce, seeing him nod, she walks over to him. "Uh, and sit, just like you are, right now?"

She says, sitting down, trying to fold her legs as his are. She is...well, I will not say she is in good hands, but she is certainly in other hands, now.

Khalid and Bryce both come over to where I am sitting.

"I-I-I had no idea it would b-be like this."

"She's a strong young woman, Khalid, but having to take another's life isn't something you just get over and go on your merry way."

"How many have you killed, Bryce?"

He looks to me, not startled, but surprised.

"You speak as if you have been fighting your entire life, killing. Have you?"

"Of course I'm not the authority on it, but -"

"Y-you have done your fair share, until n-now."

"That's not..." He pauses, mid-thought. "Gods damn this. How did this happen?" He says, placing a palm onto a nearby treetrunk. "This isn't something we should just be discussing. Kililng. It's simply _wrong._ "

"As I recall," I say, standing up, "we were looking for a young wizard, polymorphed into a talking chicken."

He has to smile at that, as does Khalid. "Right, that's where we should keep our attention." He take a deep breath, focusing, looking around. "Melicamp's tracks led this way, so once we've finished our rest we can keep following them."

"Thank the GODS," Neera says, joining our small gathering. "I thought we'd be here, like, FOREVER."

"Hiiiii, Neera." Xzar takes the opportunity to follow her.

"What?" She says, crossing her arms, sizing him up.

"I'm looking for a very important spellbook." He says, nodding, looking uncharacterisitcally sane and serious both.

Her palms move, almost seemingly of their own accord, out and up. "Does it LOOK like I have a spellbook?"

He narrows his eyes. "I'm watching you," he says, pointing two fingers at his eyes and one at her.

"Oh believe me, I know. It's exceedingly creepy."

He holds his attention on her, then laughs, maniacally, walking away.

Neera turns to the three of us. "Seriously? _That_ guy is still here?" She jerks her head towards the cackling wizard.

"He helped Imoen and I, Neera. We might not have made it here without him and Montaron."

She sighs a deep and regretful sigh at Bryce's reply.

"Something about this forest is messing with my head." She says after.

"I know what you mean," Bryce says, and noticing her look of confusion, continues, "the life in a forest should, in theory, all be connected, in a sense, to it. But something about that connection is being disrupted. I can barely sense anything here."

"That's weirdly specific. So you can...sense life force?" Neera poses an interesting version of a question I've been meaning to ask Gorion's ward myself.

"Truthfully, I'm not sure. I seem to gain information about things, people and animals, that I couldn't otherwise. Where they are. Their general intentions, feelings." He says, kneading his forehead, almost as if he is trying to gain that information at this very instant.

"That's odd." Is Neera's reply. Blunt, but accurate.

"'Tis n-n-not like any spell I have ever s-seen."

"Nor any ritual I have ever conducted, any prayer. Did I hear you say that this skill is recently acquired?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips.

"After the night that changed my life, as well as Imoen's," he says, looking over to her, now distracted by learning the finer points of meditation, "...forever. I can't explain how it began, why it's happening...it's all so frustrating."

"Maybe the trauma kicked something into gear in that brain of yours," Neera says, knocking on her own head with a curled finger.

"Gorion claims that you do not know anything of your heritage." I say, and Bryce cups his chin, thinking on that for a moment before responding.

"It's true. It's something he never wanted to tell me, perhaps because he himself didn't know. He was always a man with secrets, mysteries about him."

"He was a g-good man, Bryce." Khalid says, and the steel in his eyes would brook no argument. Not that he would get one from me.

"His passing is a tragedy," I add. Gorion was, as Khalid said, a man who perhaps had no equal in the Sword Coast when it came to knowledge, experience, sagacity. "But the point still stands. You could be descended from strong natural empaths."

"My mother was an orc, I know that for certain. I wouldn't exactly call them mind-readers."

"A-and your father?"

"A coward, clearly. Leaving his child in the hands of Candlekeep's monks, the kind of men that do that shouldn't have had children in the first place."

Strong words. Very strong words indeed. "But you did not know him, correct?"

"Does it matter if I did? He lacked _responsibility,_ Jaheira." He says, emphasizing the point with an extended hand. "I wouldn't _want_ to know a man who doesn't have that."

Neera's eyes, widened, dart between us as she casually slips away, mouthing "Oooookay then."

"Gorion was your father, Bryce. He did raise you, after all."

His breathing, heavy, rapid, seems to slow down at that thought. He nods, but still turns to leave. "I'm going to scout ahead." Is all he says before traveling into the woods.

"He has a b-bit of a sore spot there, d-d-doesn't he?"

"Too sore, I fear, especially once he discovers who his father truly was."


	20. Kivan

**Chapter 20: Kivan**

There are things in this world a man should not have to hear.

Have you ever heard the one you love most, cherish beyond all others, all things, scream in agony, in the terror that can only come from pain?

Have you ever heard the lash of the whip, the grinding, the turning of the wheel? The laughter, cruel and unrelenting, of those who take pleasure from such sickening acts?

But the worst sound was not any of these. The worst sound that a man can hear after such depravity...is silence. Deheriana could only hold out against such an onslaught for so long, and I fear I would not be long to join her.

I heard the shattering of my own bones. The soft _thud_ of the binding ropes as they hit the ground. My own footfalls, soles of my feet against dirt, grass. Once, these sensations brought me great joy. Now, I fear that the sounds weigh heavier than any happiness I once had, may have had in the future.

Eventually, all I heard was the quiet contemplative air that seems to arise at day's end. The hooting of owls, the soft sounds of smaller animals racing to find their home. This night, they were not the only ones fleeing, wondering where to go.

Then, there was the screaming, the gnashing and wailing, the heaving, coughing cry of the man who had, in such a short time, lost everything he had ever known.

The scraping of bark against callused hands, the pattering of blood from swinging palms. The blood called to me. It spoke to me, demanding that there was only one way to see this debt I owed repaid.

The sounds seemed to leave, to retreat somewhere far away, in pouches carefully stored in my memory. Sensations such as those would not ever disappear, not completely.

I recovered, slowly, focusing on my own survival.

The sharpening of wood into implements, spears and bows. The cries of animals who died only to satiate a hunger, but it was not enough. This man, this beast that I had become, had a hunger far deeper than any rabbit could sustain.

The forest never looked the same twice. Some sort of foul magic, I would assume. A wizard, hiding his lofty tower. A grove of druids, protecting their inner circle. It did not matter, not to me at least.

Until the day I met the half-orc.

"Hail. You appear to be lost, young one." I called out. My voice had grown hoarse from disuse, or perhaps it always sounded this way, and those heaviest of burdens have finally pressed upon me fully, made me realize.

"Actually, I was looking for you." He replied, hand never quite leaving his scabbard, eyeing me with a gaze I could only describe as full of purpose, like my own.

"To what end?" He did not know me. How could one even surmise I was here? Perhaps he was an agent...

"My companions and I are trying to reach the middle of this forest, in order to find a powerful mage. Have you been here long? You could...show us the way, if you'd like." He gestured vaguely behind him. So trusting, and yet so guarded.

"What makes you believe I would help you? Furthermore, how did you even know another was in this forest?"

He rubs at a temple with a thumb, taking a deep breath.

"Have you seen a chicken, by chance?"

"A...chicken?" I must have looked startled by the question, because he continues.

"I fear it's very important that we find it. It's not an ordinary chicken. It's -"

He turns, suddenly diving out of the way of a whizzing arrow.

Drawing my own bow, I turn towards its origin. Skeleton archers. If there truly was a user of magic living here, it was possible he could have undead defenders.

I roll behind a nearby trunk, steadying my breath. Testing the string of my bow, I find that my hands, my wrists are ready to fight once more. They would have to be, for after this moment, I would not stop. I could not.

The half-orc and I leave our cover at the same time, firing. I knock the skull off of one, while he causes another to fall, taking out its leg.

Two down, but there were many more. I hear him shout as I return to my makeshift cover.

"I'll move in closer! They won't stand a chance in melee!"

He did not get the opportunity.

The flash of steel and magic, the hard clattering of bones. I heard these sounds, and it seemed that our battle was over before it had truly begun.

"Bryce, it is safe. Come out."

"D-d-dear, not so loud, there c-could be -"

" _Others?_ Oooh, Khalid, you're such a _magnet_ for danger!"

"Bah, didn't even get t' knock any of their blocks off. 'Tis no fun."

"Uh, I don't think the SKELETONS would be able to hear you, duh!"

"Aw, come on Neera, let 'em have their moment."

In its place, there seemed a greater cacophony awaiting me.

"Perhaps the lot of you scared this chicken you seek with all of this..." I leave my cover, gesturing widely. All of this _madness._

"I never got your name, elf." The half-orc turns to me, stowing his bow.

"Kivan, of Shilmista."

"Shilmista? What is a wild elf doing all the way out here?" The woman who first spoke addresses me, the experience clear from the somber timbre of her voice. Perhaps she is the leader?

I turn to see two young women whispering as they glance at me. One of them must be Neera. Who were all of these people, and why did they seek a chicken? Curiosity, I fear, overtook me.

"The young half-orc -"

"Bryce."

I nod at him, continuing, "Bryce would have me believe that you seek both a chicken and passage to Thalantyr's tower." I knew his name, but little else. I had hunted all over this forest, marking the trees. I had no business with the wizard, but it seems now something pressing will draw me to him.

A monk emerges from behind the group, bowing his introduction. "The chicken is Thalantyr's apprentice, the victim of a polymorph spell gone wrong. He has left us of his own volition."

"And he is still a chicken?" I rub my forehead as I consider the possibility of a lone chicken somehow surviving here. It is not likely.

"As far as we know, yes."

"He has no doubt arrived at the tower first, given the suspicious tracks I have seen recently going in that direction."

"Well, that's great news." Bryce sighs. "Would you be willing to lead us there?"

I nod. "I have one condition."

The tall, thin man in the green robes laughs. "A _condition?_ Sounds like _oodles_ of fun!"

"He's...um, well, insane." The young woman with hair like smoldering pink fire cringes.

"Bah, no more n' the rest of us, jus' a wee bit more honest," the halfling waves a dismissive hand.

"If I am to aid you in this task, you will aid me in one of my own."

"And th-that would be?" The tan, stuttering warrior is the first to respond.

"I seek the half-ogre Tazok, second in command of the Iron Throne."

"The Iron Throne?" Bryce cups his chin.

"They're a huge trading guild in Baldur's Gate. Like, the HUGEST." The young woman with blonde hair clarifies.

"What business have you with this Tazok?" The woman, the leader, asks another question.

"It is quite simple. Tazok..." I hear the sounds echo once more.

The screams. The deafening silence. The cracking of bones. The roar that echoed through the night. The laughter. _His_ laughter.

"Tazok must die."


	21. Thalantyr

**Chapter 21: Thalantyr**

A wizard's work is never truly done.

After all, the Art provides one with infinite possibilities. Always a new spell to learn, or some combination of magical energy and time to possibly create something entirely new.

It is this spirit of enterprise, this scholarship, in my mind, that drives the burgeoning wizard forward, even in the face of failure.

Now, if we are to discuss _failure,_ there are many names that come to mind. So many apprentices that fail to grasp this very basic concept. How can one come to a mage such as I and expect no less than rigor, no more than to give their very best, perhaps even their _lives,_ in pursuit of greater knowledge?

It's been some time since I sent off Melicamp to test my latest attempt at a more efficient Polymorph spell. Efficiency is a quality oft underappreciated when it comes to spells.

Consider Bigby's various Hand spells. One might not see the need to create Crushing Hand _and_ Interposing Hand, but the two spells do serve different purposes, require different amounts of time and energy to prepare and cast successfully.

Therefore, could Thalantyr's Transformation perhaps be any greater or lesser than Tenser's? Polymorph Self?

To discuss the minutiae of such would surely bore most, so I will simply say this: Melicamp _should_ have returned by now...

As if on cue, I hear a faint...scratching, at the door. Not a knocking, as one might expect. Almost as if it were a sharp object, and not bent knuckles.

My scroll awaits in front of me, the rune I was drawing upon it left half-finished. With a heavy sigh, I supposed it could not hurt to see who or what required entrance at such an ungodly hour.

I extend my arm, pulling my left hand upward and tight, into a fist, speaking the command word. My dutiful flesh golems lurking, I draw a deep breath, watching the door open slowly, widely.

The first thing that scurries through is...gods help me, a common _chicken._

I draw Magic Missile from my mind, preparing to squash what one might call an ordinary pest, but a voice breaks my concentration.

"Uh, anyone home?"

"Subtle, Neera."

"S-s-so brazen! We are entering the home of a p-powerful man, we must..."

"Be _cautious,_ of course! Oh, what _wonderful_ deaths we could die if we-"

"Oh, ye'll get a wonderful death, alright, if ye don't shut it!"

Quite a few voices, to be precise. Stowing Magic Missile and considering Dragon's Breath instead, I walk the dozen or so paces from my study, out the door, and see a group of...well, I hope adventurers and not thieves, because they were certainly not subtle, as I heard one voice proclaim.

I sigh, and call out to them. "Greetings, one and all. 'Tis I, Thalantyr, greatest wizard on the Sword Coast, and so on and so forth." I bow half-heartedly, continuing. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

Quite a collection. A half-orc, several humans, elves, and half-elves. Some with latent magical ability, and some with power that I would find difficult to describe, categorically. This half-orc, in particular...

"We seek your apprentice, Melicamp. Your spell..." The young man in question begins to speak, and the pieces fit together in my mind.

"My spell must have gone awry, somehow." I stroke my chin, wondering if that chicken I saw all too briefly...back to the drawing board on Thalantyr's Transformation, I suppose.

"Melicamp should have arrived here before us." An elf in green and brown leathers, with a furrowed brow, scans the entryway.

I sigh again, and listen carefully. He should be making some kind of noise, clacking and clucking, as the birds are wont to do.

It is an easy thing to track, considering it is moving towards us now. I shove out an open palm. Bigby's Grasping Hand appears, in all its translucent glory. I slowly extend my arm, and the hand floats down the hall, gently bobbing as it goes. Waiting for the precise moment, I slowly close my hand.

It is a strange thing, to control such a power. A construct of pure magical energy, yet also of your own mind and body. Easy enough, for a spellcaster of my power, but I have heard tales of those without such will, whose constructs turned, believing them _unworthy._ I am many things, but unworthy...no, Thalantyr is worthy of all of his accomplishments, all of his knowledge.

I pull my fist back with vigor, and the hand comes rushing with it, flustered clucking its accompanying chorus.

The hand drops him, and he...it, I suppose, proceeds to run around in a dizzying circle.

"This is my apprentice?" The frustration finally sets in. How could he bungle such an easy task? All he had to do was cast the spell _precisely_ as I had prepared it.

"It w-was, before the spell, one would a-assume."

"Master Thalantyr!" The chicken, finally content to stop its cardiovascular exercise, speaks. "I can't believe I made it back!"

"It would've been a lot easier, had you allowed us to help you." The half-orc eyes the chicken with no shortage of suspicion. "Why did you run?"

It shakes its head with gusto. "My mind is-" It stops, darting its head this way and that, attempting to peck at the floor.

"It appears my spell, or at least, the spell he _cast_ , worked quite well." I attempt to answer for it. "So well, in fact, that Melicamp's mind is slowly succumbing to animal instinct. In other words..."

The blonde young woman's eyes go wide, raising a finger. "He's becoming more and more like an ACTUAL chicken!"

"Magic's wonders never cease to amaze me." A young, bald man in robes shakes his head, hands on his hips.

"You think if we leave him like that long enough, he'll just...stop being Melicamp, and start being, um, y'know," the other young woman, with hair like a feminine fire, ponders her query for a moment, then finishes, "a bird forever?"

"Unfortunately, Imoen, magic _always_ has a countermeasure. A good wizard is prepared for the worst!" The tall, thin mage in the green robes is correct, thankfully. He hides his mental instability well, but much like my apprentice, his mind is not quite his own.

"Since it was _my_ spell, I should be able to dispel it. I will need to conduct a ritual." I consider what ingredients are of pressing need. A magic circle, to place Melicamp in. Some sort of warding wall around it, to prevent any more attempts to flee...

"Would you like us to gather anything for you outside the tower?" An older half-elf woman speaks for the first time since the group's arrival. Something about this place troubles her. Of course, Jaheira and I have had previous dealings, as Harper business brings her and Khalid up and down the Sword Coast. Yet, she acts as if she does not know me. Interesting.

"Only one component is out of my reach at the moment. A human skull."

The unhinged wizard fishes through his robes, revealing...precisely that.

To be exact, he pulls out two, one in each hand.

" _Male..._ or _female?"_ he grins, baring his teeth.

"Why do ye..." the halfling attempts to speak, but thinks better of it, shrugging.

"Male." As he tosses me the skull, I think carefully about what is about to occur. If Melicamp failed at testing one of my first new creations, a spell which, frankly, I did not think took that much power to cast, was it even worth it to return him to his human form?

"I'll need some space here. Please," I command, extending a hand outward, "vacate the premises until the door opens again. Otherwise, I fear that there may be...complications."

As they leave and the doors swing closed behind them, I am left to examine my apprentice. Or, the chicken that used to be my apprentice.

He was not here for long. I had him run errands, acquiring this and that, shopping for necessary ingredients and such in town. He was an earnest sort, which I could stand, but for one so eager to please, he did not display much potential.

I suppose, rather than considering this a display of his incompetence, I can call it a failed trial of my spell. There will come a time when I have mastery over many such spells, and I will no longer have to sit in this tower in the middle of the woods, wondering when my time will arrive, when I will become the man I was destined to.

So, a small bump in the trail, we shall call this moment.

Yet another day in the life of...well, of a wizard who it seems has some work yet to do.


	22. Imoen, Outside Thalantyr's Tower

**Chapter 22: Imoen**

So...love at first sight. It's something that I've heard about, sure, but never really experienced. It's a powerful thing, they say, something that just sort of takes you over and makes you go all silly in the head. Love in general is complicated enough, right? Let alone just having it totally gain control of your mind.

"He's just so...so..." So when Neera makes the googly eyes at our new elf friend and says stuff like that, I get a bit concerned.

"So...?" I prompt, mostly just to see how she'll finish that thought. I can think of a few words, sure: Kivan is definitely very tall, very tan, and very, _very_ mysterious, in that 'devastatingly, broodingly handsome' kind of way. Exotic, that's another good one.

So when she just sighs and cups her cheeks instead, I get even more concerned.

"Do you want to go talk to him or something?" I prompt again; maybe I'm just prompting too much. She didn't ask for a wingman...er, wingwoman. Maybe she can just handle this whole thing herself. Not exactly my field of expertise, after all.

"Never. It'd be like getting dirt on your fingers and smearing a work of art." She says, still in that kind of dumbstruck, dreamy mode.

"Do you realize how stupid that sounds?" She snaps back to reality at my reply, looking more than a bit peeved at me. "If you like the guy, just go make conversation. Where are you from, what do you enjoy doing, basic stuff."

She blinks, nodding. "Hmm, you've got a point there. If I don't, what am I doing, really? Just pining, I guess."

"Exactly!" I pump a fist, still not one hundred percent sure if I should be encouraging her.

Suddenly, she gets very serious looking. "Alright, cover me, I'm going in."

With that, she skips over to where he's sitting, carving something out of wood, it looks like.

Why in Gods' name is she _skipping?_

"Hiii, Kivan." She waves, big and dramatic like, beaming.

I walk over just in time to see him put down his carving and stand. "Hail." Is all he says back, nodding his greeting to both of us.

Neera clears her throat, and says "Uh, I don't think we've been formally introduced. I'm -"

"You are Neera, correct?" He finishes, offering a hand.

She looks shocked. "Um, yeah, I'm, uh, Neera, yeah." She takes his hand, the shake looking a bit one-sided, as far as strength goes.

"I'm Imoen." I add, and we also shake hands. His hands feel very rough, probably from a lifetime of ranger-y activity. Living on the land, hunting, erecting cabins and tents, that sort of stuff. Didn't feel horrible, I have to admit, but still kind of...prickly.

"So, do you know Neera from somewhere?" I ask, because honestly, I'm not sure how he could've known otherwise.

He wipes above his lip with a thumb as he answers. "I heard her name spoken earlier, as I first saw you." He turns to look at her, continuing, "and your cause, the liberation of the Wild Mages, speaks to the elves of Shilmista. We support your struggle for freedom, as it mirrors our own."

She goes pale, looking like she might faint on the spot. "Well, uh, that's great! I mean, FREEDOM is great." She shakes her head, trying to regain her composure. She takes a deep breath, squeezing her hands tight together. "What were you making?" She gestures to the carving he set on a nearby rock.

He picks it up, holds it out on a palm. "Just a hobby of mine, I suppose. Idle hands make for untested hands, is the common saying. Deheriana always loved the form of the panther..." he trails off, tracing the back of the lunging animal, forever trapped in mid-jump. It's beautiful looking. He must have made quite a lot of these in his time.

I look to Neera, and then back to him. "Deheriana?" I probe, hesitantly.

"Best not to speak of her now. Or perhaps ever." His look turns sour. "A name that I shall never forget, but history may toss aside. Let us leave it be, for now." His gaze narrows as he sets down the wooden panther.

I connect the dots pretty fast, and so did Neera, I assume. Deheriana was probably an old girlfriend, or wife, something like that. Combined with what he said about needing to kill this Tazok guy...it's all fairly clear. Basically, I'm just going to stay out of his way, but I really have no idea what Neera will think, or do. I look to her, and she looks very sad to hear about this Deheriana.

"It sounds like she meant so much to you, though." She says, quietly, looking away from him.

"That is precisely why she must remain in my heart, where she will find true peace. In my mind, she and I can only experience pain, loss, and regret." He takes a deep breath. "Please, just leave me be for now."

Neera waves her hands quickly. "Sure, sure, no problem." She giggles, nervously, backing off first, with me following.

After we've made some distance, she says "Well, THAT could've gone better." I see her decorating her face with a frown.

"You and him have some things in common, though. That's a start."

"And...quite a lot that we don't." She shakes her head. "I mean, I've never lost somebody like that. I can't imagine how tough that must be for him."

I nod, thinking on that point. "Especially if it was recent. It sounds like he's not quite finished grieving."

"Yeah, and until then, he's going to be...y'know, hard to talk to."

"Mhm. Maybe there's other guys out there for you." A consolation prize is not quite what I had in mind saying that, but I think it came out that way.

"Pfft, like who? BRYCE? _"_

I clam up at that. For some reason, the idea of him being with anyone really bothers me, like at a fundamental level. That's weird, right?

"Out of the question." I say, sounding...angry?

She giggles at that. "Oooh, someone's feeling _possesive_ today..."

"No way!"

She laughs even harder.

Love. It's complicated, right? Like, way too complicated...


	23. Bryce

**Chapter 23: Bryce**

There's a lie that all of us choose to believe; or, perhaps better stated, there's an unspoken truth that we choose to handle, each in our own way. It's quite simple, really: no matter how much each of us believes that we are always in control of ourselves, we simply aren't. We earnestly believe that we'll always think clearly, rationally, regardless of the situation we face. Oftentimes, this is simply unreasonable, yet we will ourselves into thinking otherwise.

Today, I learned the clear, harsh nature of this, one of the many lessons I thought I had learned in the time before I began adventuring, in a rather unexpected way.

As we waited for Thalantyr to complete his ritual, I was training, as I have been distracting myself with whenever I felt ill at ease. Another valuable lesson I learned: the mind and body work in concert, and for one to be healthy, you must exercise both whenever possible.

"Hey, Bryce. Um, bad time?" A perky, distractingly sweet voice calls from behind me. Finishing my imagined parry and counter-thrust, I turn to its origin. Neera?

"What can I do for you, Neera?" I reply, wiping the first beads of sweat off my brow, exhaling.

She places her hands together. "Well, I noticed you always seem to train by yourself. Doesn't that ever get...um, lonely?"

A strange question. "Khalid and Jaheira have sparred with me, when they've asked. It's very relaxing, actually, to train alone." I have to wonder...did she come to me to discuss something so trivial?

"I just mean...well..." she ponders the thought carefully, trailing off.

"Would you like to join me?" I skip a few steps ahead, again wondering if this was all she wanted. Training is important for any able-bodied man and woman to do, and I would welcome her enthusiasm.

She goes wide-eyed, taking a step back. "Well, if you want. I've never really, uh, sparred. Um, that's what you call it right?" She laughs, acting and sounding quite nervous.

"Only if both participants believe in it." I rub at my chin with a free finger. "I understand your desire to do so. As a mage, you need to be prepared for times when you have no spells left to cast. More often than not, the mage doesn't make it out of that alive."

"That's a bit MORBID, geez."

"Just speaking from experience."

She clears her throat. "Right, okay. So...what do we do?"

"I'll prepare some practice blades for myself, and you can use your staff." I point to the quarterstaff in question, still slung on her back. "Just give me a few minutes, and we can get started."

"Okay! Sounds great!" She gives an exaggerated thumbs-up, and dashes off to Imoen. I'm glad the two of them seem to be getting along. It's difficult to find friends these days, let alone develop the trust those two seem to have in one another.

I break off a couple of nearby branches, and begin the tedious work of filing them down to close approximations of weapons; sharp tip, handles with guards, trying to recall the exact shape of the broadswords the Gatewarden would give me at Candlekeep.

As I do so, I observe Neera and Imoen discussing something, and then Neera...skipping? Over to Kivan. Now _that's_ got to be an interesting conversation...

Neera runs over to me as I stand, swinging my faux-blades, testing their heft, weight, and so on. I have to say, I didn't do a bad job with these. Have I always been able to do these kind of things? It seems strange to me, that these skills just come naturally. Not the strangest thing that's happened to me recently, but just another box on a list I haven't even begun checking off.

"Ready?" She says, smiling while she draws her staff.

"I should be asking you that question. Awfully anxious today, aren't we?" I smile back.

"I just want to test the mettle of the GREATEST swordsman in the Realms!"

"That's a load of nonsense. Who told you that?" I can guess who, but ask regardless.

"It's a secret!" She giggles. Of course. Cloy and mischevious. Someone's rubbing off on her...

We clear some distance, settling on an open area.

"Remember, this is purely for exercise. No killing strokes, no -"

"Yeah, yeah. Geez, we're like the same age! Have some fun once in a while!" She interrupts, yelling across the way. She has a point, I suppose.

She comes at me rather clumsily, missing as I move to dodge her overhead strike.

"Going to have to be faster than that, if you want anyone to take you seri -"

I dodge again, as she whiffs a horizontal swing. A bit faster, but still without the proper spacing, as I observe her return to a neutral stance.

"Your footing's a bit off, try shoulder-width."

She looks miffed now, annoyed that she's receiving instruction rather than an honest struggle.

Again and again she comes at me, never successfully hitting. Seemingly endless energy results in little to no progress.

Finally, in her frustration, she...casts a spell? The arrow of flame whistles by my shoulder, as I barely duck in time. I turn to see it singe a nearby tree.

I turn back to give her a piece of my mind, when I remember. The fire that singed my shoulder. The woman who cast a spell. Just before...just before...

And when I look at Neera now, I don't see her. I see someone...no, _something_ else. A massive suit of dark armor, horns and spikes that seem to pierce the sky, twin suns staring out at me.

I will _end_ you. I'LL SPILL YOUR INTESTINES ON THE GROUND, I'LL RIP YOUR HEART FROM YOUR CHEST, CRUSH IT BETWEEN MY HANDS, I'LL STOMP YOUR SKULL UNTIL YOUR BRAIN IS A PILE OF OF MUSH BETWEEN MY TOES -

"Bryce, stop! STOP!"

I snap back to the present. What...what...?

"BRYCE!"

I turn to the voice. Jaheira.

Neera lies on the ground before me, her staff shattered, bisected. Her face...oh Gods, she's _bleeding_...

Jaheira's hand pushes me away, at chest level. She looks at me as if I was some kind of...no, it's not me she's looking at. It's someone else. Someone she thought she wouldn't see this day.

All I can do is breathe heavily, try to expel whatever just took over my thoughts, my very sight. What have I _done_...?


	24. Neera

**Chapter 24: Neera**

I'm...flying?

"...don't know, something just -"

No, maybe it's more like I'm drifting. Going somewhere faaaar away, where no one can find me...

"-'s not good enough, lad! Jes' _look_..."

I could be swimming, I guess. Floating through deep, heavy water, wondering if I'll ever find my way back to the surface. Treading, treading, treading...

"...m-must be _something_ we can d-d-do to help..."

It's a sensation like when you're dreaming. Like when you know that something can't really be happening, and yet it is. I wonder if I'll ever wake up...

"...inside the tower, where he may accommodate..."

Voices. So many VOICES. Where are they coming from? What are they saying? It's like...I should know, I should remember, but I'm trapped inside a dark box, and I can't distinguish the darkness from the box itself. I can't see my hands, I can't feel the surface -

I open my eyes. Gasping, I try to sit up, but a shooting pain in my side stops me. OW. What...? I blink rapidly, gently massging my bandaged torso. I take deep breaths, trying to focus. Okay, where am I? I take a quick look around. Pretty simple room; bed, small table, a shelf full of books. I could be anywhere.

How did I get here? I tried to train with Bryce. And then...what HAPPENED? He just went berserk! Tried to rip me into pieces! I rub a palm on my forehead. I've never seen that happen before. One minute he was just being his usual posturing, annoyingly correct self, and the next...

A few raps at the door, and a slow, gentle opening. Imoen first, and then Jaheira.

"Ah, you are awake." Thanks for the enthusiasm, Jaheira.

" _Neera!"_ Imoen dashes over to me, taking a seat as well as my hand in both of hers.

"Hey." Is about all I can manage. I sound weak, probably because I haven't had water or a decent meal, at least since I've been out. "How long...?"

"Several hours now." Jaheira finishes and answers my question. "You should lie still, for the moment. Your injuries were quite severe." She continues, crossing her arms after she closes the door.

"But you're okay!" Imoen adds. "And that's...I don't know what I would've done otherwise."

I smile gently at her, and she returns the favor.

"We have quite thoroughly discussed the cause and circumstances of your situation, but have not gotten the opportunity to ask you directly. Can you tell us exactly what happened?" Jaheira leans on the nearby table, pressing me.

I shake my head. "it's all kind of discombobulated. I can tell you what I remember, at least."

The two of them nod, Jaheira's quick and sure, Imoen's a bit more exaggerated.

"So after Imoen and I tried to talk to Kivan," she grins at that beginning, "I went over to Bryce to discuss his training regiment."

"He often decides to do that alone, but in this case..." Jaheira prompts me, and I continue.

"In this case, he decided he wanted a training buddy. Well, more like a practice dummy..."

"Hey, you probably held your own just fine!" Imoen tries to encourage, but...

I shake my head again. "Not really. I went at him with everything I could think of, everything I had, and I just never got a clean hit. He just...just kept telling me how to do stuff, move your feet here and strike faster there, it all got on my nerves. SO, I thought of a spell..."

"And in casting it, you set him off, as it were." Jaheira strokes her chin.

I nod. "After that, things get blurry. He just...screamed. Yelled, whatever. He went nuts."

"That's when we came to help you!"

"You needed quite a bit, after all. Calming down Bryce, getting you back into Thalantyr's tower, quite the ordeal all around."

I take a deep breath. "What do you mean I 'set him off?'"

"According to Bryce, you recreated the 'night that changed my life forever.' Almost exactly, as he would describe it."

"So what, he just went off because he thought it was happening again?"

"He's not quite over it, ya know."

"But that doesn't mean he can just go around ASSAULTING whoever he wants!"

A beat of silence.

"He has apologized numerous times -"

"You think I care about a gods-damned APOLOGY!?"

Imoen's hands tense up on mine.

"Come, Imoen. Let us leave Neera to rest, while we try to explain the situation, with newfound clarity." She stands, gesturing to the door.

"Right. Um..right. Hope you get better soon!" The two of them leave, Imoen waving slightly as she goes.

I flop back onto the bed, sighing. They're going to blame ME for this. "Well, you're the one who got all pissy and shot off a spell when you were supposed to be training. And what if you triggered a bad Surge, huh? Could've turned him to STONE or summoned a DEMON!" My hands finally plop down and join the rest of my body.

What was I supposed to do? Accept the teaching of my betters, like some innocent little schoolgirl? Gods DAMN him! Self-righteous, violently angry, just the biggest stick in the REALMS up his butt...

As soon as I can walk up to him and give him a piece of my gods-damned mind, I will. Y'know, maybe I'll just leave this little group, too. Oh, but Imoen...and Kivan. Ugh, why does all of this have to be so COMPLICATED?


	25. Jaheira, Thalantyr's Tower

**Chapter 25: Jaheira**

Life's many opportunities are often described, metaphorically, as doors. We knock on opportunity's door and await its reply in the affirmative, we close the doors of one time in our life and hope to open them in another. Most likely, it is because we use them so often, doors, that our minds can simply find no better way to describe something as vague as an opportunity, so grand as our journeys through our own lives.

But when I close the door to Neera's temporary safe haven, I do not feel the positivity, the curious excitement of the metaphor. Instead, I feel a creeping sense of dread wash over me. When I close this door, what door will I be forced to open, to confront...?

"Jaheria?"

Imoen's voice snaps my thoughts in twain like an errant twig.

"Yes, Imoen?"

"I've been calling your name for like a minute now. What's going on with you?"

I shake my head. "Just thinking, Imoen. Thinking about all that has happened, about how we are going to discuss what occurred."

"Discuss?" She looks taken aback. "I mean, he tried to _kill_ her. That's worth...discussing?"

"He is your friend, Imoen. Why do you not take up his defense?"

At that, she is left without words. I continue.

"Go on ahead. Let the others know that Neera will recover, in time, and that I will be along shortly."

"Uh, sure, I guess. Listen, Jaheira...what are we gonna do? Be straight with me." She locks eyes, steady and yet unsure, her mind clearly reeling from the thought of Bryce simply acting out of control, rabid as a wild dog.

"There is an explanation for what happened, Imoen. Listen closely to it, and try to understand this situation from Bryce's point of view. That is all I should say for now."

She takes a deep breath. "Alright, I guess. What else am I supposed to do?" She mutters, walking away

I turn to Thalantyr's study, rapping on the ornate wooden door. Everything about this tower, this man, fits that word, ornate. Opulent, in the sense that it clearly is hiding something about the man, the way he views himself, others, the world. It reminds me of the Tethyrian palace. What I remember of it, anyway.

"Hmm?" He calls, leaving the door ajar. "Oh, you. Please, come in." A forced, if polite greeting as I enter. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" The word _pleasure_ slides off his tongue too easily, not forced but with no enthusiasm. Having to say what you are supposed to. Keeping up manners. It strikes me as...oddly familiar...

"Were you ever a member of royalty, Thalantyr?" The question must seem odd, to say the least.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A prince, perhaps a duke or some other title-bearing noble. Your manner of speech, the decoration of your tower, it is quite striking."

He laughs without humor. "No, I am not, and this is not what you wanted to discuss." He crosses his arms, eyeing me warily. He glances over at the remains of his ritual, faded magical runes etched on the ground, along with what appears to be a charred bird.

"I am here, Thalantyr, to discuss mistakes."

He scoffs. "Then you are speaking to the correct man. My first spell went horribly awry, and now I'm harboring injured adventurers. Mistakes seem to be piling up for me lately."

"Taking in Neera was not a mistake. We thank you, profusely, for that act of generosity."

"I had a free room," he shrugs. "And will for quite some time, apparently."

"Melicamp was an earnest young man, Thalantyr. His efforts will surely be missed."

"I suppose."

How can he speak that way about his apprentice? I will let the matter rest, for it is his business, and not mine. Yet, I still feel a twinge of indignation.

"What happened to that young woman, by the by? It looks like she was attacked by some kind of beast, judging by the injuries, the savage nature of the attack."

"A beast...in a manner of speaking, yes." The word _beast_ gives me pause. It did not look like a rational, thinking person did this, did it? And yet...

"It was one of you then, I take it?" Perceptive, or with a bias. Either way, it is an easy truth to suss out.

"Yes."

"I would surmise it was the half-orc. He looked on edge almost as soon as you arrived. Something troubles that young man, doesn't it? Something he cannot totally control."

"He does not fully understand himself, what he has been through. It causes him great distress, mentally, psychologically."

He nods. "Then let me offer some unsolicited advice."

I perk up, narrowing my eyes at him.

"What he has done, surely cannot be fully forgiven. But it can be understood, it can be recognized. Surely, he will not have to go through this alone. The same applies to...what was her name?"

"Neera."

"Yes, Neera. The two of them will never reconcile, not completely. But, perhaps that is not necessary." He shrugs, continuing, "perhaps the two of them were destined to not be together."

Now it was my turn to scoff. " _Destiny?_ What kind of wizard -"

"One that understands that our metaphysical reality still obeys the whims of forces like it. Forces that lie even beyond the comprehension of our greatest minds."

I let that comment hang in the air. While he is correct, I wonder if he truly means it. Destiny has led us to this moment, has it not? And now, I must follow the path it has set for me.

"Well, thank you for all you have done."

He bows. "My...pleasure." He grins as I turn to leave.

My mind still reeling from a strange conversation, I find the others gathered outside the tower.

"Thank the gods she'll be alright." Bryce says, the first to speak. "I don't know what I would've done if something had happened to her."

Montaron laughs heartily, and Bryce snaps to him. "Ironic, lad, don'tcha reckon?"

Xzar chips in. "After all, you nearly _splattered_ her guts all over the ground! In fact -"

"Please be quiet, Xzar." Rasaad sternly reprimands. "Please."

He puts his hands up in surrender.

"Jaheira." Kivan, standing up fully off the tree he was leaning against, calls to me.

"L-L-Love, Imoen c-claims -" I hate to cut off my own husband, but I must.

"We owe all gathered here an explanation for the events of this afternoon. An explanation overdue."

"O-overdue? Please, J-J-Jaheira, t-think about what this will mean!"

"I have."

"What explanation?" Bryce inquires. "Other than the latent trauma causing something to disturb, take over my mind."

"It is a story, Bryce. A story about you."

"Me?"

"Not just you, but of the many others across the Realms like you." I look to him, and to Imoen. I can leave her out of this, for now. But not forever...

I am about to open a door I cannot close. Now that I think of it, there is a better metaphor here than a door, isn't there? It is a box. A box that, once opened, spills its contents, shows you exactly what lies beneath its lid. Once you have seen what is inside, there is...no turning back, is there?


	26. Bhaal, The Time of Troubles

**Chapter 26: Bhaal**

There is a certain, unmistakable weight that parents pass onto their children. Every father his son, every mother her daughter. It is a weight that cannot be measured, not objectively, but it is one that hangs over these children, and the parents that created them, for their entire lives.

It is the shadow that lurks in the mind of the father, the all-seeing eyes that observe the son in the days of his life. The gentle caress that touches the mother, the shield that stands guard in front of the daughter. This weight takes the form of questions that must be answered in the course of a generation. Will my children be like me? Will they be worse than me? Perhaps the most feared question of all...will they be better?

As I stand ever vigilant, watching the world from Boareskyr Bridge, I have to contemplate these questions, for my life as a mortal has been spent on a single important goal: to allow a generation to follow me, to ensure that my legacy will forever impact the course of history.

But it seemed, as I sensed a presence walk onto this bridge, that it was time for my legacy to continue in the past, rather than the present tense.

"Bhaal!" He shouts. Cyric. Ever the upstart, ever the master of deception. One of the greatest mortals, he was reduced to the state I was: logic being overtaken by emotion, desires and goals always seeming to overwrite those of others around you, fostering a world full of conflict, of lust and greed...of murder.

"Cyric. How far must you chase me? You knew I would be here, after all." I turn to him, and observe the man who would deign himself worthy to slay a god. At his side, a sword lies waiting in its sheath. No ordinary blade, to match a man known for his extraordinary deeds. He was prepared to take my life.

"I would hunt you to the ends of this plane! What kind of disgusting creature...you were never _worthy_ to be a god!"

Never worthy? I would certainly dispute that. "The Dead Three earned their place in the pantheon, Cyric. Have you?"

"Lies! Filthy lies!" He draws his blade. "Lies that will cost you your life!" He charges forward, towards me, towards his destiny. It was time for me to defend all that I knew, all that I understood, all that I have learned living a lifetime as a mortal.

My daggers would not be able to hold his blade forever. It would slide off them, poised and graceful, as I attempted to be in my own life, but Cyric was larger, stronger than I, and his skill was on full display.

We danced our dance up and down the bridge, but time was not on my side. I would weaken, I knew, through prolonged frontal assault. It was the way of things; Cyric, the battering ram, fueled by a life of hatred, of anger at a god who he believed unworthy, could only weaken and topple the gate that barred his path to glory.

Even as I made my incisions, cut at his muscles and arteries through the few openings he left me, he seemed only to move faster, to swing wider and harder.

His momentum carried us off the bridge itself, near the river that ran under it. I climbed down nearby vines, while he leapt to the ground instead, where the clashing of our steel resumed.

He pushed me back, towards the edge of the rushing water. Every step he took was akin to three, and I moved against him, one at a time. But it was like attempting to fight a swirling tornado, attempting to swim up a tidal wave. Impossible, akin to asking a grieving woman to forget her husband.

"This is where you _end, Bhaal._ " I had nowhere to run, no clever plan to see me through this time. However, there were forces already in motion. Alaundo's prophecy would hold true, and, in the end, though my physical body would die here -

He runs me through. I choke out my last breath as a mortal, think my final thoughts as my body plunges beneath the icy waves.

Though I would perish here, in end, Cyric...I have already won.


	27. Gorion, Twenty Years Ago

**Chapter 27: Gorion**

When I began adventuring, I believed, rather strongly, in the Balance. Khalid, Jaheira, and the other Harpers made it quite clear; we were to protect this force as it ebbed and flowed in the Multiverse, every plane of existence teetering back and forth along an ever-growing, ever-shifting axis. Even our own Prime Material Plane was not immune to its give and take.

Good and evil, I therefore postulated, were relative concepts, terms used to describe the positive and negative energy that affected the Balance in a given plane. There would always be an influx of one, and the other would inevitably rise, counter its advance, and things would return to a quiet sort of peace.

But when I entered the Temple of Bhaal, as I heard its impossibly large, wide stone doors _thunk_ into the inward walls, as I gazed upon what I could, even now, find no proper words to describe, I began to doubt that Evil did not spring from here, did not find its way into every plane from this very spot, this grandiose hall, this decorated altar, this...ceremony.

 _Children._ My eyes darted to each of them, and the bodies that surrounded them. These priests, priestesses...no, they were not members of any clergy. These were Deathstalkers, Bhaal's crazed worshipers, convinced that if they murdered enough people in his name, that he would return to them in all of his glory.

My focus turned to the top of the seemingly innumerable stone steps, each hewn wide, craggy, where a priestess stood in ceremonial garb. A crown of blades, with dark leather to match. An impossible, unnatural sort of beauty that could only come from the favor of a chosen god. She was their First, their leader. Amelyssan.

I turn to each of my companions present: Khalid and Jaheira, my first and most faithful friends, Elminster and Drizzt Do'Urden, heroes who seemed to step out of the mists of mythology to aid our cause. It was the five of us against an army of fanatical, devout worshipers of a dead god, and the prize was the most important of all: the future of several young lives.

Khalid and Jaheira went left, Elminster and Drizzt right. Which left myself with Amelyssan.

 _Veritas...Credo...Oculos!_

Our prepared spells fired; Haste, Invisibility, the protective layer necessary to secure our odds, no matter how outnumbered we appeared.

But, of course, we had our own skills as well.

Drizzt, said to be not only the Drow's greatest swordsman, but arguably the greatest man who ever lived to lead the blade's deadly waltz.

Elminster, a mage as cunning as I, with the strength that I lacked, who could fight proficiently even without the use of Tenser's Transformation.

Khalid and Jaheira, the sturdy bulwark and the whirling vortex that followed behind it. The truest expression of oneness I have seen in two people, limbs connected, minds forged together on the hammer of love, the steel plates of marriage, the anvil of gratitude.

And myself, not worthy of comparison to these great heroes, but a mage of some skill nevertheless, and with even the potential to draw these valiants to my side, I felt secure in our chances.

Then Amelyssan stopped time in its tracks.

It was not, as one might believe, a metaphor. With a wave of her hand and a halting battlecry:

 _Doom awaits thee!_

All that was left in a world turned to ashen grey...was myself, and Bhaal's First, his greatest Deathstalker.

"Gorion...what a pleasure to finally meet you." She traces her hand on the altar, whose caress could not be returned by the slab, as she moved around its perimeter in a slow semi-circle.

"I would be remiss to say the same." My resolve gathers, and would not waver, not even in the face of her sultry voice, her...charms. "Why have you taken these children?"

She laughs, a cruel, deprecating cackle. "You _know_ why. The ceremony must be complete."

Ceremony. The word I used to describe this bloodbath, this tragedy. How many people...men, women, and, yes, even children, had to die for this... _ceremony?_

"That's not what I asked, Amelyssan. Why have you taken _these_ children?"

She stops. "I see. So, you do not know of their true nature?"

"They are _children!_ Their true nature is one of freedom, of joy and innocence! Why would you _take_ that from them!?"

"Their sacrifice shall fuel His return." She clasps her spread fingers into a tight fist. "Unless of course...you believe you can stop me." She grins, a taunting gesture if I have ever seen one.

"Do not test me, Amelyssan. This does not have to end with more violence, more death."

She sighs. "Oh, but it must. Have you heard the prophecies?" She shrugs, almost as if it was a matter of course, that I could not simply end her life here and now, and end any chance of Alaundo predicting the outcome of this encounter.

"Alaundo's words may never be incorrect, but they are just those: words. Words that elucidate only one of an infinite number of possibilities."

She chuckles, briefly. "You are _so_ convinced, aren't you? Convinced that by coming here, by struggling against destiny, that you could defy it, alter it in some way."

I draw my dagger. "Let me show you how convinced I am."

I sprint to my side, projecting illusions of myself at every possible angle on the platform. Amelyssan materializes a hafted blade, covered from end to end in protruding spikes.

"No matter...how many of you there are..." she grunts, teleporting to and eviscerating each shade I conjure, "...I _cannot_ be denied!"

"There only needs to be one of me to end this madness!"

 _Cupio...Virtus...Licet!_

The world regains its color only a moment too soon, for she turns from my last mirror image and throws her weapon towards me, screaming with a blind fury.

The warding shield that appears before me, pushed forward by my desperate outpouring of energy, halts her weapon in place. But...it cannot hold. It will not.

"Gorion!" I hear a shout from below. Jaheira, first always to speak in my defense, first always to agree with every ridiculous plan I devised.

"Take...as many as you can! Go! GO!"

But my command goes unheeded by one. A Drow warrior, sprinting up five steps at a time, a running jump towards Amelyssan, forcing her to break her concentration, recall her weapon and parry his scimitars.

"Yes...your essence will do quite nicely." She takes deep breaths, hungry with anticipation.

Drizzt flips off her pseudo-polearm's handle, landing in a defensive posture.

"She cannot defeat us all, Gorion! Not if we work together!"

"Posturing _fool!_ I can, and I will!"

A voice breaks the concentration of all present. It is quite amazing, frankly, how a child's voice can diffuse even the most heated conflict.

"Ma...mama? MAMA!"

Khalid, babe in hand, nods to Jaheira at the temple's entrance. She grimaces, watching him go.

"NO! You will not HAVE them!" She dashes towards a nearby edge, hoping to leap off. Walls of force impede her path, first in front, then surrounding her.

She strikes against them repeatedly, yelling, cursing, damning us all to the Nine Hells.

Elminster saunters up to Drizzt and I on Tenser's Floating Disk, taking a long drag from his pipe. "Almost had to do something drastic, didn't we, Gorion?"

"I fear, Elminster, that this is not the time for such talk."

He nods. "Maze, then? Or perhaps...Imprison?"

I wave a dismissive hand. "No, she has suffered enough for her god, as have these..." I look around the temple. There were so few of them left. Khalid, having taken one...wait, where are the rest of them? "There should be more..."

"We may not have arrived in time." Drizzt sheaths his blades, making the grim assessment I could not.

"Gods..." Is all I can say in response.

"In this place, old friend...the gods that we remember have found little purchase."


	28. Sarevok, Twenty Years Ago

**Chapter 28: Sarevok**

We were all children.

Our lives progress in this way, time inexorably moving forward. To what end, we decide ourselves, masters of our own fate, kings of our own destiny. Our birth, our parents, the places where we go, the people that we meet...our lives.

But from the moment of our conception, we too are chained down by the circumstances that we cannot control. Let's use me as an example, for in the whole of the Forgotten Realms, no life could be more important.

I was born, somewhere, at some time. I lived the first decade and a half of my life in a kind of haze; a fog that never seemed to lift. Like my eyes were always clouded by some greater understanding, some way of thinking about everything I knew that I simply could not fully grasp.

One could say that I was not truly born until I crawled out of that pile of bodies.

It was a place to hide from the unthinkable reality around me; the sounds of chaos, of bloodshed, of a night of unquestionable brutality, the kind of night where heroes cemented their destiny, and where villains were struck down where they stood.

And so, Sarevok Anchev found cover, refuge, from all of it, from everything that a young man could not willingly face.

Instead, he surrounded himself with the only thing of lesser importance than a coward: corpses.

Signs, those bodies, of weakness, of fear and desperation. Men, women, even their children, young and old, clothed in the ceremonial garb and of the peasant's tunic.

The smell was nearly impossible to bear; somewhere in that pile, one would have most likely found vomit, along with the blood and sweat.

If they bothered to look.

I crawled, desperately pushing my way out from under those less fortunate, when the sounds had ended, when I believed that it was safe.

The floor was hard, but slick with trails of blood, and I slipped and fell before I could stand. My shaking limbs, along with the unusual terrain, forced me to look upward from my knees.

There, trapped in a tightly sealed container of magical design, was the woman who claimed to be my mother.

Amelyssan.

She bored into me with eyes somehow equally full of compassion and hatred. Who _was_ this woman...?

"Please, you must help me!" She cried, pounding on the closest wall between us. "You can save me, son!"

I stared her down. I could _save_ her? Is that what she believed?

In that moment, something changed within Sarevok Anchev.

In that moment...he was reborn.

My hands stopped shaking. I pushed myself up from the floor.

"You would _dare_...? After what you have done to all these people?" He stood taller. His voice was deeper. This was not the young man who willingly gave himself to this depraved, twisted ritual. This was a young man who knew what needed to be done, who could save no one...but himself.

"We could start a new life, away from all of this! You just have to free me!"

"How many men have you seduced with those honeyed words? How many of these children were your own, you...you..." the words to finish that thought came to me, faster than I could speak them. _Whore. Wench. Bitch._ "...you worthless disgrace. You _coward."_

"Please!"

Her plea falls on deaf ears, on the ears of a young man who, on this night, left the Temple of Bhaal full of a purpose he never knew existed within himself.

On this night, the haze lifted from his eyes.

"Sarevok! SAREVOK!"

On this night...Sarevok Anchev would begin anew. And he would not stop, not until he found those who left him here.

He would make sure they knew not to make that mistake again.


	29. Bryce, High Hedge

**Chapter 29: Bryce**

As strange as the tale Jaheira told us, every detail seeming to add to its ridiculous, implausible nature, somehow, it made sense as well. It would be hard for anyone, let alone someone like me, who grew up essentially in isolation, to believe that they were tied, inextricably, to a dead god. Yet, the bond between Bhaal and I wasn't something as ephemeral as faith; his blood...ran in my veins.

The dreams that came across as visions, a seemingly impossibly calm, rational response to not only having to kill people, but having to encourage others to do so as well. A force beyond my control overtaking my thoughts and behavior, the last great bastion of one's own free will. It was all connected by His intent, his plan, which apparently began even as far back as the Time of Troubles.

I find Imoen as we trudge back through the forest of High Hedge, going more slowly out then we came in, due to certain injuries, as well as new faces.

"Imoen."

I call out to her, pushing my way past trees, under and through branches, bushes, foliage.

She turns to me, not as fast as she used to. Something else was off about her behavior as well. Her smile seemed strained, her posture defensive. Just as she finished turning towards me, a final nonverbal que told me all I needed to know. She took a small step back, not even a whole one, a half or quarter pace, I would judge.

"Imoen..." My voice trails off, a hollow imitation of a greeting.

"Heya." She looks away, then back to me. "You reacted EXACTLY like I thought you would _. "'I see, it explains quite a lot, mhm, yes, clearly the best possible explanation._ " She tries to make light of the situation, Gods bless her.

"I have to apologize, Imoen."

She waves an exaggeratedly dismissal hand. "Nah, you've done a lot of that today already."

"I did something terrible, something I regret very much. How could I just let that go?"

She sighs. "We have to move on when we do bad stuff, Bryce. Didn't Ol' Stick in the Mud teach ya that enough?"

"Now that I know what, who, I am, what happened to Neera won't...it can't happen again. I can _fight_ his influence -"

"Okay, enough with the hero talk, please?" She...giggles? Then turns away from me. "Come on, we gotta keep moving." She waves a hand forward as she starts off.

Hero talk? What does she think I am, some kind of...I don't even know. That's my problem, having a difficulty understanding the thoughts of others. Surely, I know what they mean when they speak, what kind of information they wish to convey.

Yet, somehow, every conversation I have seems to revolve around me. Especially now, I'm sure, that there is a specific thing about me, my heritage, that makes me rather unique, even among a population as diverse, extraordinarily so, as that of the Realms.

And so, when I speak to others, even my childhood friend of old, I _never_ seem to understand how their thoughts go from Point A, travel down the path known as memory, the road with the sign labeled experience, and reach Point B.

If I'm confused by her thoughts about Jaheira's woven tapestry, then I suppose I would have a much harder time speaking for anyone else's. It's information, frankly, that I was surprised she shared at all, let alone in such elaborate detail.

I can trust Rasaad, Kivan with such information. One seeks knowledge for its own sake, and the other is driven by a pursuit even more single-minded than my own.

But Montaron and Xzar?

Furthermore, I haven't had a chance to speak to Neera. I doubt she wants to talk, or even look in my general direction. How could she, after...

For my entire life, I believed my father was less than a man, someone who abandoned his greatest responsibility, someone not worth calling my relative, let alone one of my closest. I thought, naively, that if I journeyed beyond Candlekeep's walls, that I might find him, demonstrate what kind of person I've become without him in my life.

I see now how foolish that way of thinking was. My father was not just a man; he was something far greater. Something I'm going to have to elevate myself, my life, to be worth comparing to.

As for demonstrating what kind of person I will be...that I can work on. One day, one mistake at a time. Bhaal, you will _not_ have control of me, of my mind. My life, and my destiny, are my own, and no matter how much of you is in me, no matter what last vestiges of control you try to exert on this world...my strength, my focus will see me through.

You will _not_ win.


	30. Kivan, Outside High Hedge

**Chapter 30: Kivan**

From the instant I laid eyes upon him, even in the weary, nearly broken state I find myself in, I knew that the half-orc was special.

'Special,' of course, referring to something inherent about his nature, something that so clearly sets him apart from others that it is not something that you notice, but rather something you react to.

Little did I know how special he truly was. The spawn of a now-dead god? The news, the story, was overwhelmingly, my logical mind told me, impossible. And yet, I recall the way he seemed to know about Thalantyr's skeletal defenders before it would have been physically possible. The way in which he carries himself, that he himself does not recognize, the way that he locks eyes with you...

The strangest possible thing breaks my concentration. The sound of...sniffing. Not just breathing through one's nose, as one might do when their face is close to your back as you carry them. No, deep whiffs, like one is appraising freshly-cut leather.

"Neera?"

She looks up with a start, from what I can tell, anyway, craning my head to half-gaze at her. I thought it strange when she asked me to use my back as a sort of makeshift mount. A 'piggyback ride' she called it. I do not fully understand, but she seemed happy when I accepted. Now, I wonder if this was her true motive for asking such an unusual favor.

"You smell so _good_ , Kivan." Not quite the response I was expecting. "Like a...like a freshly baked nature cookie. Mmmmm..." I can almost hear her drool from here.

"A...nature cookie?"

"Y'know, with like earthy ingredients. Uh, oats or something."

I can only shake my head, smiling. "You must still be feeling disoriented from recent events."

She places her head onto the back of my neck, nearly whispering. "Yeah, maybe. Of course the only reason _he_ could've done something wrong is because he's so _amazingly_ divine that he just couldn't help it. Of course."

"You would blame him for the consequences of his heritage?"

"Damn straight!" She yells. "And everyone else too, for just going along with it!"

"It is a delicate situation, Neera. One we must handle with care, lest..."

"Lest what?" She lightly hits my back. " _Lest we too become victims of his -"_ she lowers her voice to match my deep, sandy gravel, and she cannot make it all the way through a sentence without coughing.

I laugh at her feeble impersonation. "That is not what I sound like."

"Pffft, have you _heard_ yourself talk?"

"Neera, are you up there?" His voice shatters any illusions we may have had of peace. Neera gasps as I stop our slow walk, turning to face him as he appears.

He looks the same as when we were gathered, just earlier this afternoon. Yet, somehow his presence feels different. As he stares at me, then looks to Neera, she ducks her head behind my own.

"She does not wish to speak."

He rubs several fingers deep into his forehead, most likely thinking of a suitable response.

Sighing, he nods. "Alright. But whenever she's recovered and willing to listen to reason -"

" _REASON!?"_

His eyes go wide as Neera screams, craning her head out over my left shoulder.

"A poor choice of words, I admit -"

"GODS, you are _such_ a prick!"

"After what I did you to, I can't exactly say you're wrong." He admits, walking past us. "But for what it's worth, Neera," he turns to face us on his way past, "I will never be able to apologize enough for what happened, what I did. I hope that someday, we can come to an understanding." He finishes, turning back and going on his way, up to the rest of the group.

I hear a _hmph_ from behind me.

"He has only the best of intentions. It is how he was raised, how he has lived."

"Whatever. Let's just keep going. We're gonna be so far BEHIND at this rate!"

I grin, going for a light jest. "And whose fault do you think that is, Ms. Nature Cookie?"

She suppresses laughter. Then, she rests against me. "Is it alright if I take a cat nap?" She massages my shoulders lightly. The way she so gently feels me, rubs against my muscles...no, I cannot think of her. Not if I do not want to mimic Bryce's own murderous rage.

There will be time enough for that rage. Time, which now I have so much of, that I am away from my people, away from the only woman I thought I would ever truly love, and be loved by. One question still plagues my mind. After Tazok is dead and buried, what will I do with the time I have left in my life...?


	31. Rasaad, Temple of Lathander

**Chapter 31: Rasaad**

It was a long and thankfully uneventful journey back to Beregost. I could not help but notice the rather dense, heavy tension in the air. It reminded me of my first days at the Temple, bathed in the alternating waves of shadow and light, shrouded in a meditative, contemplative mystery.

But in this case, the mystery was not due to the rigors of study, the discipline necessary to hone one's body and mind together to improve their soul. No, the questions that hung in the air for each of us came back around to one rather tall, muscular subject, a young man for whom we must all have had, by now, an opinion regarding.

While I might call him young, he is, I would suppose, older than I, but does not always act as such. However, to call what happened in High Hedge a show of immaturity would not be correct, factually speaking.

That was one mystery swiftly revealed, a truth dispersed onto us like holy water in ceremony, in flicks and bursts without a clear notion as to the depth of the pool from which it came.

It was the kind of revelation that left one wanting, like the idea that a man or woman could indeed ascend themselves at all. How was it possible for a god, given mortal form, to father a child? Truly, how much of Bhaal existed within him? How much give and take is there in his mind, throughout his body? Given his direct relation, would it be possible for him to gather worshipers and become, himself...a god?

The questions kept my thoughts occupied for the quieter moments, the long and exhausting marches.

We found ourselves in front of the Temple of Lathander, east of Beregost proper, but not far, I would judge.

Father Ormlyr would not have this place look anything other than shining, and it showed in the cleanliness, the way the glass seemed to reflect more than the sun's light back, a blinding sort of devotion that was apparent even in the construction of the temple proper.

With a grim sort of determination, the architecture was glossed over in favor of the impressive stained-glass doors, splaying the sun's rays on seemingly every inch of their surface.

Father Ormlyr and a few chosen attendants worship at the altar that dominated the center of the temple's interior. Around it were the connecting passages, even the hallways radiating out from the middle like Lathander's chosen domain, with jagged corners and imperfect tiling.

It was an open space, with a very high ceiling. As I examined the interior, I couldn't help but marvel at how long it must have taken to build, the toil and labor...for what? To stand and worship those who walk the Realms already? It was hard to believe that I once thought the gods existed on other planes, so far away, when all my life, they were right here beside me.

Father Ormlyr answers our summons, standing before us with clasped hands, bowing.

"We've retrieved Bassilus's holy symbol." Bryce steps forward, drawing it from a pocket, handing it to him.

He sighs as he takes it, turning it over in his hand, observing it with a great delicacy and care.

"I have to ask, Kelddath -"

"In this temple, young man, I am Brother Ormlyr."

Bryce bows, continuing, "did you know Bassilus, before...?"

"Before he became a murderous psychopath?"

He mirrors Bryce's nod.

"That is a story for another time, when I do not have to contemplate the fall of Zhentil Keep, what the Time of Troubles has done to our people, our world."

He places the symbol on the altar behind him. "Five thousand gold pieces, as agreed. Give me a few minutes to fetch the proper amount." He bows again, going on his way down one of the myriad sunbeam halls.

"Easy enough then." Bryce turns to the rest of us. "Jaheira, Khalid, what do you suggest we do with the gold? Five thousand is a hefty sum." He crosses his arms, looking to them first, then the rest of us gathered.

Jaheira strokes her chin. "Best to save it for pressing need. Supplies certainly take precedence over extravagant spending."

"Bah! Not even a celebratory meal!?" Montaron huffs from near the entrance.

"We will have time to celebrate when Nashkel is no longer in dire straits." Kivan speaks up, then looks away when myself and Imoen turn to him.

"Th-their problems are many, Kivan, but how d-d-do..."

"I heard a great deal from travelers passing through High Hedge, and Xzar and Montaron have been forthcoming as well."

"That's _right_ , Kivan! We've been very... _helpful_ , haven't we?" Xzar grins that mad grin, almost daring someone to contradict him.

"About as helpful as a BEE in your pillow!" Neera pats Kivan's shoulder, and he lets her down. "Look, I'm just gonna say it. You guys wanted to go to Nashkel all this time, right? So just GO, and leave us normal people ALONE!"

"I wouldn't call any of us normal, Neera. Not completely." Bryce counters, and I nod my agreement.

"He speaks truly. We are, to put it lightly, a group of what society would call 'misfits' or 'outsiders;' at least, that is the gentle way to say it."

"I mean, they have been helping up until now." Imoen points out, literally, raising a finger.

"Yeah, but who's to say that when we get there, they're not just gonna KNIFE us in the back?"

"Careful, Neera, your paranoia is showing." Jaheira chuckles.

"You don't think they're even a LITTLE BIT suspicious!?"

Montaron clears his throat. "Methinks, lass, that if we wanted to kill ye," he shrugs before finishing, "'twould have been child's play by now."

She bristles at that, but does not respond.

"So much noise in Lathander's house, please, settle down, one and all." Kelddath returns with a bulging sack, presumably filled with our coin. He hands it to Bryce, who opens it, closes it, and nods at Kelddath as they shake hands.

"Young man, I would advise caution on the road. It will not be an easy journey if you choose to stray from Lathander's light."

"Thanks for your concern, Brother Ormlyr," Bryce turns back to us, then to him, "but my companions will keep me in check, guide me back if I ever lose my way." He steps back, turning to leave when Kelddath calls out again.

"It is not them I am concerned about."

Bryce stops, along with the rest of us, then opens the temple's doors once more.

Kelddath Ormlyr is not the only one worried about this young man. His life may not ever return to normalcy, and if the rest of us follow him down this path...the same fate awaits us, I fear.


	32. Corwin

**Chapter 32: Corwin**

Now, before I say anything else, I have to say this...I'm a patient woman.

Gods keep me, having a daughter, raising her on my own, has taught me to at least have that in the face of the crises that only small children can throw at you.

Scraped knees, black eyes, and, of course, the boys that tease her at the schoolhouse...it's always one thing after another with Rohma. She's got my knack for getting into trouble.

I guess I can't help thinking about her, as I stare down Captain Brage of Nashkel.

I don't really know him, you could say; he's just my assignment. Hells of a first mission, if you ask me. A rogue guard-captain, gone mad in the face of gods-knows what, fleeing the city, the people he's supposed to protect...for so long, they were supposed to be _his_ family.

The other guards kept telling me how devoted he was, not just to his own wife and child, but to Nashkel, to the Sword Coast.

Had to be, to keep the peace with Amn, they said. So why did he flee? And how in Faerun did he end up like this?

Looking ahead, blank expression, gripping his sword tighter than Rohma holds her bear at night...and dried blood, in splotches. It all points to something bad. But what could he have done? In the state he's in, he can't really say. No matter what I do or say, it's like he's a gods-damned golem, just standing there.

I yell, I poke, I even shot at him with an arrow or two. Nothing seems to get his attention.

But then something gets mine.

A group of...well, they look more like bandits than travelers, approaches. The clink and clang of steel, the scratching of leather and hide...wow, look at all of them.

"Hold, travelers. This is Flaming Fist business, stay back." I step out onto the road, putting a hand up to deter them.

"Captain B-b-brage? Is that you?" One of them stutters, eyes wide, focusing on the good Captain.

"Look at all of that blood. Something is wrong here, clearly. You claim you are of the Flaming Fist?" A stern-looking woman eyes the man who stuttered, then the Captain, turning her gaze to me.

"That's right. Schael Corwin. Caution's our best bet here, still don't really have any idea what's going on with him." I gesture to the Captain, trying to deduce anything else that might be helpful here.

"That's quite a scar you have there, Corwin." A rather large half-orc's eyes find what some people would call my most prominent feature. Adorning my left cheek, it's not the first time I've heard comments. Scars don't have to be bad things; they're reminders, of things that you've done, things that have happened...things you were supposed to learn.

"What's it to you?" Something about him rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it's just how freakishly tall he is. Maybe it's the green skin. Either way, my question comes out pretty scolding, like when Rohma gets into trouble and I have to play Bad Mom. Gotten pretty good at that. Hard to turn it off, sometimes.

He smirks. "Just an observation."

"Could've kept it to yourself." We lock eyes.

"True." He doesn't relent.

A girl with bright red hair clears her throat. "So, this is all official, sure, but it looks like you could use some help." She puts her palms together, smiling sheepishly.

"Of _course_ she could use our help!" A tall, thin man with mossy green robes yells. "After all, we're _heroes!_ Cut from the finest cloth, born with only the desire to _protect, to_ -"

A halfling cuts him off, making an annoyed sound. "Oh aye, ye be such a hero, wizard. The damsels just fall all over themselves fer a _necromancer._ "

The...necromancer? Chuckles. The halfling realizes what he said, growling as he continues laughing. That's...quite a pair there.

"It looks as if the captain was involved in some kind of fight." An elf in green and brown leathers strokes his chin as he observes Brage more closely. "See how the blood starts and stops? It appears he attempted to clean it."

"Oooh, good catch, Kivan!" A blonde girl runs over to stand next to him, attempting to mimic his thinking posture. "I'm picking up some magic heebie-jeebies too. Something weird's going on here, that's for sure."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," I say, still puzzled as I have been for the past hour or so. I point to the sword, still in his hand. "I figure it's got something to do with that blade. Hasn't let go of it, and look at his hands." White knuckles, visible veins, a tight fist..."He's not dropping that thing if it costs him his life."

"Khalid, you said this man's name was Brage? Captain Brage?" A bald man, young but surely wizened beyond his years, as the monk paraphernalia gives away, prompts the first man, who stuttered.

The stuttering man, Khalid, nods. "Of N-nashkel. He is the c-c-captain of their guard."

"And from what I heard questioning them, of sound mind and character." I add. "Not exactly the type to run and hide from responsibility."

"None of us can afford to do that, these days." The half-orc comments. Sounds like there's a story there.

The girl with the bright hair, and now I just noticed, pink leathers...who wears _pink_ leather? Studies Brage's sword. Her eyes go wide. "Look! There!"

All of us see the runes carved into the sword. It's subtle, but they're moving, rotating around one another.

"I see." The stern woman pats at a thigh, then nods. "The sword is cursed. The runes forged into the blade give away its true nature."

"Cursed? How?" The half-orc asks.

"Does it really matter?" I jab. "We've got to get it away from him. Now." I turn to make a move on Brage, when he springs to life, out of nowhere.

"Please, please you must relent! This sword, this man, it's all quite the event!" Brage steps long, exaggerated steps, causing everyone to step back, drawing weapons, prepared magical energy, then goes back to stock still, almost like he never moved at all.

After a beat of confused silence, the necromancer speaks first.

"A rhyming madman!"

"Rhymin'?" The halfling considers his point. "He did rhyme, din't he? We deal with the worst shite, I swear..."

The half-orc mouths 'relent' and 'event,' then turns to Brage. "Brage, Captain of Naskel, true and fair, what leaves you in this predicament, only able to stand and stare?"

Really? He's going to _question_ him...it?

Brage comes to life again, shaking his head, taking a step back, dramatically flourishing with his arms. "Oh, 'tis a sad tale, one filled with woe! For Brage came face to face with his most dangerous foe!" Still again. This is some gimmick. What kind of curse does something so ridiculous?

The half-orc looks to his comrades. When none offer more than shrugs or apologetic smiles, he sighs, continuing. "A foe so strong, so powerful, that Brage fled his post, when his city, when this world needed him most?" I have to admit, for being on the spot, the half-orc's not doing bad.

"What else could he do, in the face of such a mistake! The tragedy lies not in the action, but in the cost it must take!"

"I think I'm getting the picture." The half-orc looks grim.

"What is it, big guy?" Pink girl asks.

"Brage wasn't fighting when he fled. He did something he couldn't take back. Something so awful that he had no choice but to flee Nashkel, run, literally, for his life."

"Hmm...but that could be almost anything." The blonde girl offers. She backs down when the half-orc looks directly at her. Again with the bad feeling. Who _is_ this guy?

"Does this man have any friends or family in Nashkel, other than his fellow guardsmen?" The elf in the assorted leathers looks to me.

"He has a wife and child, I heard. If this 'mistake' he's talking about was that bad, it has to be about them." I say, dreading the thought that comes into my head.

The half-orc nods at my response, then turns back to Brage. "We have ascertained the nature of your crime. Now all that remains is to see to your punishment, your owed time."

Everyone waits for Brage to respond again. A moment passes. Then several. This time, he's not as exaggerated, more...normal. He struggles to speak, his face twisting and contorting, hands shaking.

"T-then...a riddle it must be...to solve...and to set...me...free!"

"Set you free?" The monk looks concerned. "What has you trapped so, Captain, stuck like a planted tree?"

"It's a demon!" His eyes bulge, spittle flying along with his words. Is he back to normal? "In this gods-damned blade, something lurks, something taking control of my...!" He screams in anguish, before going stock-still once more.

"Aye, 'tis a fate worse than death, methinks." The halfling scratches at his nose.

The necromancer chuckles. "Demons aren't all _that_ bad! They make so many _interesting_ deals..."

"We're going to have to cut this one short, if we have any hope of saving Brage." I turn to the half-orc.

"And to do that, we have to solve his riddle." He fiddles with the handle of a sheathed sword. "We could also simply remove the blade by force."

The stern woman balks. "And how would we do that? Lop off his arm?"

"P-please, Bryce," Khalid holds his hands up, "let us d-do this peacefully."

"Of course." He studies their reactions. His name is Bryce, apparently. Interesting guy. He returns his attention to Brage.

"Then speak your riddle, plain and true, so that we might see this matter through."

Brage smiles a devil's smile, as he clears his throat and begins:

"It has neither mouth nor teeth, yet it eats the food placed beneath. It has no village, no home, yet forever does it roam. It has no office, no source of might, yet always it is prepared to fight. It breathes not, yet it appears, eventually, to all with conscious thought. What am I?"

"Certainly vague enough to be a demon's riddle." I scoff.

"Yet there were some clues, weren't there?" The monk ponders.

"It lacks sentient body parts and station, and it only 'appears' to those with thought. Therefore, it cannot be anything corporeal." The elf adds to the brainstorming pile.

"It does appear, though. Which means it must be something those with thought experience." Bryce narrows it down even further.

Pink girl's stomach growls. She covers her mouth. "Uh...how about hunger?" She grins.

"No, unfortunately it is not that simple." The stern woman and Bryce look at one another.

Bryce strokes at his chin, then snaps his fingers. "Let's put it all together: Brage, Captain of Nashkel's guard, made a tragic mistake, one that caused him to flee his home."

"He did so due to the curse on his blade...or at least, he tried to get the curse away from other people." Blonde girl scrunches her face in thought.

"In the process, while he was in and out of his own mind, he realized the weight of what he had done, and tried to isolate himself." The elf nods.

"Finally, having fled for so _long_ , he accepted his own _deliciously cruel_ fate, waiting for someone to accept his challenge and free him!" The necromancer continues.

"I'm still foggy on one point." I say. "What exactly did he do?"

Bryce narrows his eyes at Brage. "The answer to that question and the answer to Brage's riddle are one and the same."

He steps toward Brage, takes a firm stance, putting his hands on his hips.

"It has no mouth or teeth, yet it always eats the food placed beneath. It has no village or home, yet forever does it roam. It has no weapon, no station, no source of might, yet always is it ready to fight. It does not draw breath. The answer to your riddle, Captain Brage..." he pauses for a moment before finishing,

"Is death."


	33. Captain Brage

**Chapter 33: Brage**

"The answer to your riddle, Captain Brage...is death."

The blade lands softly in the grass, followed just after by my knees, my hands onto the gravel of the road. His words...he was correct. Death is more than just the answer to a riddle. It was my sin, my curse.

Even as I laid there, fingers grasping at the ground, groveling as I was, I could think only one thought...there was no redemption for what I have done, for what I became that night.

They come to my aid, these adventurers, here to collect me like I'm some lost pet. Do they know for what transgression I, with my last thoughts as a sane man, have come so far from home? I should hope not, or, I dare hope even more fervently, that they do know, that they simply wished to...

There are hands on my shoulders, words of concern, of empathy, of encouragement. I do not hear them. There are no words that can put back the pieces of what I've shattered, the life I once had now adorning the floor of my mind like so much broken glass.

Unable to be repaired, unable even to be returned to the way it was. Loss is a painful thing, such an indescribable thing. For how can one know how to put words to _absence_ , to the lack of something? Especially when it is caused by...

"Please, you must kill me!" I cry out. The hands leave my shoulders, the very air seems to leave their lungs upon hearing my declaration.

"Kill you?" The woman with short, dark hair and a scar across her face speaks first. Just as she was first to arrive, I recall. Or, rather, _it_ recalled. "I'm still not sure what happened to you. Not sure why I'd do that."

A half-orc folds his arms, his jaw twitching ever so slightly. "Why don't you tell us what happened, Captain Brage. If you're still in there."

I raise my head to look at him. If I'm still...I glance at the blade that destroyed my life in a handful of strokes. Yes, I am here now, young man...and I wish I wasn't.

The story is, unfortunately, a very simple one.

Between the ever-present threat of Amn breaking our fragile peace, those war-hawks no doubt keenly aware of the recent Iron Crisis plaguing Nashkel and other surrounding miners and distributors of iron ore, and my...former martial troubles, one could say that I was not in a great place, either at work or at home.

I needed something to bring me peace of mind, give me the confidence and focus necessary to right all the wrongs of this world; to bring peace to two nations who have never truly known the word, to save my marriage, to ensure that the men and women I trained to become Nashkel's, the Sword Coast's finest defenders, would still listen to me, in spite of my age, my weariness with it all.

Just as we did every year, the guards of Nashkel, myself at their head, made our appearance at the Carnival. I was always surprised by the new attractions that the seasons would bring, up and coming performers making their names known across the Realms, but there was something different about them this year.

A dwarven merchant, in particular, caught my eye. With a collection of weapons the likes of which the guardsmen and I have rarely, if ever seen, he drew many a curious shopper, onlooker. He would take the swords, the axes off their racks and tell their stories in great detail, describing their benefits to the wielder.

When I asked about one greatsword he hadn't yet shown, he drew it forth with a particular reverence, almost an awe. The Greatsword of Berserking, he called it. Known far and wide for its powerful enchantments, the sword was said to absorb all the hatred, the rage and anger of its wielder, who could call upon it in the heat of battle.

When he allowed me to place a hand on the cross-guard, to test its mettle against mine, I knew that I would never be the same. The storm that had been plaguing my mind for so long seemed to settle in an instant. I felt renewed in purpose and spirit.

I asked him how much he was willing to sell it for. When he said that his items found their wielders not by the size of their coin purse, but by the strength of their resolve, I should have walked away. When he said that it had taken so long for the Greatsword of Berserking to find its owner, wondering aloud if it ever would, I should have let the gods-damned thing go.

But I didn't.

Instead I walked away from that Carnival with a blade on my back that should never have existed.

For a time, it did its work while I did mine. My commands were sharper, my patrols more efficient. My wife and daughter could not believe the kindness I was showing, and my...proficiency in other areas increased as well, to our mutual benefit, let us say.

But, as you know, such things do not last forever.

The blade did more thinking than I, at some point. I allowed it not just to absorb my negative feelings, but my constructive ones as well. I gave my mind over to it, addicted to the power, craving the improvements I never knew I could make so easily.

It called out to me, whispering about the burdens in my life. How angry I should be at them, how I have allowed myself to be weighed down by obligations and responsibilities I didn't deserve to be saddled with.

I resisted for a time. But against a magic that powerful, a curse that potent, even the sturdiest minds will not hold.

It came to pass one night, as I returned from a particularly long and stressful day. They were asleep. It surged within my soul, jolting me out of my own consciousness. The blade was hungry, and tonight it would feast on flesh, quench its thirst with blood.

I...I killed them. With my own two hands, with a clear and directed mind. I will always hear their screams, the sound of their skin tearing asunder underneath my steel.

"So...please...you must end me. For what I have done, for what, in my arrogance, I failed to see, to understand. Please."

The silence that followed spoke volumes. So many were here, gathered, listening to an old man's confession, and they were stunned into a thoughtful quiet, deciding, perhaps, whether it was even worth it to stain their weapons with the blood of a sinner.

The half-orc nods in solemn understanding. "To lose control of one's mind isn't a crime in of itself."

A girl with matted blonde curls retorts, "But when it makes you do something like _that_...? How can you SAY that?!"

A half-elf woman stands in between them, palms raised. "What Bryce means to say is that he was not fully responsible for this tragedy."

The dark-haired woman narrows her eyes. "It was his _family._ His _daughter._ Did you hear him?"

"And family is just _so_ important, isn't it? In fact, some might say it's _all that matters_ in this world!" A tall, thin man in robes shouts to the sky.

"Aye, ain't it just. Killin' in that way...somethin' about it don't sit right w' me." A halfling scratches at the leather covering his chest.

"T-t-there is a temple of Helm in Nashkel, c-correct?" Khalid, Jaheira's husband and fellow Harper, looks to those gathered. "P-p-perhaps this is a matter best left to the g-gods."

"We are more than qualified to pass judgement here and now, are we not? The gods can offer their perspective, but it is up to us to listen or not." A monk offers with an open hand.

"Look, guys, it's really simple," a young woman with bright hair and clothing points to me. "Brage did something really bad, right? Like, unforgivably bad. But something he might make up for."

"WHAT!?" The blonde girl turns to her. "Come on, Imoen! What if this was one of us, huh!? What if he stabbed YOU to death in your sleep!?"

She has no response to that.

"That is unfair, Neera." The half-elf woman says.

"What's UNFAIR is that this guy might WALK AWAY from this!? Are you _crazy!?"_

An arrow flies towards me, hurtling straight on. There is no time to react, no questions left to answer, no considerations, no deliberations left for them.

The end is sudden, dark. The end is all-encompassing, ever-reaching, into eternity.

The end...is welcome, for a man like me.


End file.
